


The Hall of Mirrors, Part 2

by TheAstronomyMod



Category: Kraftwerk (Band)
Genre: Extramarital Affairs, F/M, Infidelity, Issuefic, Some fairly intense stuff happens, Stalking, therapyfic, writing as therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-10-16 02:23:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 151,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10561818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAstronomyMod/pseuds/TheAstronomyMod
Summary: This is Part 2 of a multi-part story. You really should readPart 1 first, which is here.A middle-aged music journalist, having gone to Germany to ghost-write Ralf Hütter's biography, finds herself drawn into the internal intrigues of Klingklang Studios. As creative intimacy turns to emotional intimacy, finally she embarks on an affair with the reclusive Kraftwerk founder.As the pair become more and more closely involved, it becomes harder to hide their infidelity from colleagues, and eventually from his family. Desperate matters ensue.Major content warning for Stalking and Online Harassment on this story. These incidents are based on real-life events, and may be intensely triggering for some readers.





	1. Post-Coital

**Author's Note:**

> All [content notes from the previous book](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9481034/chapters/21452411) still apply. Especially this one:
> 
> Although the "Ralf Hütter" of this story is married and has a daughter, much like the "real" one, the "Hütter Family" as it appears in this world are completely fictional characters. No resemblance of any kind, to real family members is intended. No offence to the real persons behind these fictions is intended, at all. This story is a complete fiction. These people exist nowhere except inside my head.
> 
> I did not put a general Archive Warning on this story, because none of them really apply. However, I will put individual warnings on a couple of chapters. This story ends up going to some very dark places, especially towards the end. Many of the issues that are raised in this story - specifically stalking, false allegations of abuse, discussion of childhood sexual assault - are issues drawn directly from my own life. Names and specific personally identifying information have been changed to protect the innocent from further blowback from the guilty. The situations have been changed, so that the guilty party is not identifiable, but almost all of the traumatic events depicted in this story did happen, albeit with all the salient details changed. This is writing-as-therapy, as a way of dealing with those events, of trying to tell sides of stories I was not legally able to tell at the time, and of trying to heal myself, rather than re-opening old wounds.
> 
> It is also very explicit in places, right from the start.

Ralf and I lay together in bed, just catching our breaths, for a very long time. We sank down into the pile of bedclothes like a nest, as if we could hibernate together for the rest of time. It felt like some kind of dream, some kind of space outside reality, that we could really lie together like that, his arms around my waist, my arms around his neck, belly to belly, cheek to cheek, our skins pressed closed together, like we never wanted to let go of one another. I never seemed to get tired of looking at him, tracing the bones of his face, the whirls of his hair, curled with sweat, the subtle striations of light and dark blue in his eyes. To be able to count his freckles with my fingertips, and follow with my lips, feeling the texture of his salt and pepper stubble where his beard was coming in. The sun was starting to go down, and indeed my stomach was beginning to growl, as I hadn't eaten anything since a brief airplane lunch, but I did not want to let go of him.

"Can I ask you a question?" I breathed, tracing his lips with my fingertips.

"Anything," he said, laughing a little as he tried to kiss my fingers.

"When did you know?"

"Know what?" he said with a teasing tone, his nose crinkling as he smiled.

"Come on," I sighed, flicking his pointed nose.

"Yes, Katrin, but which part? When did I know that I loved you? When did I know that I desired you? When did I know that I wanted to be with you... these things did not all happen at the same time, and it's hard to know which you mean."

I stared at him carefully. In anyone else, this kind of dithering would seem diversionary, as if he didn't want to answer the question. But I realised Ralf was quite sincere. And I loved him for being that sincere, suddenly knowing that he would answer any of these questions as best he could.

"Well, which came first?"

At that, he grew suddenly serious again. "Love," he said, quite plainly and without embarrassment.

I smiled, feeling my face flush. "When did you know that you loved me?"

His face grew thoughtful. "It's hard to say. It started so slowly that I don't know that I can point to any specific event and say, 'there, I have fallen in love with her.' It was more like a slowly growing realisation that I had already fallen."

"Alright then, when did you first realise that?"

He paused, his forehead wrinkling as if he were thinking very seriously. "Listen, I'll be honest. At first, it was not a romantic feeling towards you, so much as an almost paternal feeling of love. I wanted to look after you, to care for you, to make sure you were alright. The moments when I felt very close to you... for instance, when I was teaching you how to ride a bike. I felt so much affection for you on that afternoon, and looking back on it, it was clear that I had already started to have very powerful feelings for you."

Leaning forwards, I kissed his cheek impulsively, feeling ever so slightly smug that I had just _known_ that there had been more to the gift than he had been willing to let on.

"But I somehow managed to persuade myself that it was completely innocent, because my feelings were of care first, and then curiosity, as if you were a puzzle I wanted to figure out intellectually, rather than feelings of a purely erotic nature. But in retrospect, no, I was merely deceiving myself. It was already love, even then. It seems strange, that love can come first, and then erotic feelings develop later because one is already in love, but that is how it happened." As he smiled sheepishly, his eyelashes brushed his cheeks.

"It has happened maybe only once or twice in my life," I said quietly. "But when it happens, those feelings are actually the most powerful."

"And what about you?" he countered, running his own fingers back and forth between the small of my back and the top of my arse. "When did you know? How did it happen, for you?"

"I think it was different for me, because there already were pre-existing erotic feelings floating around, but those erotic feelings were not for you, as a human being, they were for the music, for the image, they were the feelings of a fan, not a lover."

He laughed very softly, his face looking deeply amused. "And you told me that your feelings were for my former songwriting partner; you told me you did not feel that way for Herr Ralf."

"You speak as if that is not you," I said, trying to dodge the question.

"Well, he is not me. He is someone I play onstage. You wrote this, yourself. I thought you understood."

I nodded very slowly. "Yes, I understand that perfectly. Herr Ralf is an idea, an image, not a human being. Loving an idea is not the same thing as loving a human being. An idea can never love you back. So for me, it was not a question of feelings changing from affectionate to erotic. It was more that I had to go from seeing you as this remote, unattainable, inhuman pop idol, to seeing you as an actual, vulnerable human being with feelings and insecurities all of your own." And as I said that, I had the sudden unbidden memory of Ralf, fresh from the shower, standing half naked in his office.

"What is it?" he said. "You're blushing."

"Actually, alright, there was a specific moment when it all changed for me. When I suddenly became aware of you as very, very human."

That adorable little-boy smile dawned on his face. "That morning... after my shower. You looked, didn't you."

"Of course I looked," I laughed, moving my hands lower and giving his pert arse a little squeeze.

"So you _did_ like what you saw." I didn't answer; I just laughed and squeezed a little more firmly. "I shall take that as a yes?" Now he was grinning openly, moving his hands to soft part of my sides and tickling gently. "You have been a little liar all along. You did fancy me. You were playing games with me."

I shook my head, trying hard not to laugh. "It's complicated," I finally said. "I had no reason to believe that my feelings could possibly be returned. I liked you so much as a friend, that I did not want to destroy that friendship with something that was so clearly impossible."

He sighed deeply, and looked into my eyes. "Yes, I suppose I was not always truthful with my feelings either. I tried to bury everything, code my feelings into secret messages I thought you would understand if you loved me, too. There was so much was at stake, but now you are in my arms, it hardly feels like any of that was important at all." Leaning forward, he kissed me again, another deep, searching kiss, as I realised he was about to start lovemaking in earnest again. But just as he started to burrow in between my thighs, a long low rumble emanated somewhere from the vicinity of his belly. "My goodness," he said, surprised as much as embarrassed. "I'm very sorry, but I haven't eaten since breakfast."

"Do you think if we ordered room service we would have to get out of bed?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

But I frowned, as I thought of something. "Do you think we can pay cash, though? This is going to go on my card in Pounds, and I don't want to get killed by the poor exchange rate."

He nodded quickly and kissed my forehead, smiling to himself. "Don't worry; I will take care of it."

Noting his smile, I suddenly worried I had made a gaffe. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have presumed... I just... I worry about these kinds of things. I'm sorry."

"Ssshhh," he said gently, pressing his finger against my lips. "I like that you worry about these kinds of things. It shows that you are sensible and practical. I like how sensible and practical you are. It means that I can always trust you, and trust you to do the right thing."

I almost laughed aloud. "Sensible and practical? Being with you, like this, is the least sensible or practical thing I have ever done in my life."

"Sssshh," he repeated. "Everything is going to be alright. I said I would take care of you, and I will."

Slowly, both of us managed to extract ourselves from the tangled knot of bedclothes. As he located and perused the room service menu for vegetarian food, I retreated to the bathroom. I relieved myself, washed up a bit, then stared at my naked body in the mirror. Already, I could see the marks of lovemaking starting to show, red patches that would turn to bruises in a few hours. Had we really been that rough with each other? It had just felt like passion at the time. I found the complimentary robe, even fluffier than the one I'd worn in Ralf's hotel room in Mexico, and wrapped it round myself like a blanket.

As I walked out, Ralf stood up and walked over, pulling me gently by the belt and kissing the tiny bit of flesh that showed above the towelling. "This reminds me of Mexico," he observed.

"I was just thinking of that."

"Did you love me, then? I think you did. That was why you were so jealous of that journalist... that woman, oh god what was that annoying woman's name. I was right; you really were jealous. But I told you, quite plainly that I had feelings for you, then. Why did you not just... _say_?"

"I thought if I said anything that you would sack me, that you would send me home," I confessed. "I was frightened to say anything."

"Frightened? I thought you were just annoyed with me."

I laughed aloud. "Ralf, I spent those three days alternating between being so irritated at you I wanted to hit you, and yet feeling so protective of you I wanted to wrap you up in a giant hug."

"Yes," he said with a short nod. "This, I think is love." And with that, he retreated to the bathroom himself for about fifteen minutes.

I tried to make myself comfortable in the hotel room. I closed the curtains, now it had grown dark, and pulled the covers over the bed to try to alleviate the stink of sex. Ralf had put my suitcase on the rack, and his own overnight bag on a small chest of drawers, so I tried to dig through and find things I might need overnight. My laptop, my phone... no. The only person I would possibly want to contact was in the shower next door. I put them away and padded back to the bed, with a book of nature writing I had bought for the train journey.

Ralf emerged clean and showered, his hair freshly parted, and padded about the room in his bathrobe. It felt so cosy and domestic; being in a hotel room with Ralf felt like the closest thing I had to a familiar home.

Someone knocked at the door and we both jumped, but then I remembered the room service. Ralf went to his coat and fished out his wallet, then disappeared down the short corridor to answer it. He returned a few minutes later, bearing a tray of food, which he carried over to the low table by the window.

"Can't we eat in bed?" I asked, knowing already that this would not be permitted.

"I dislike crumbs. Shall we open a bottle of wine to drink with dinner? I think I would like a small drink."

And so we settled down next to one another on the sofa. He had ordered a variety of vegetarian side dishes, which he divided scrupulously in half, and shared out between us. This, I decided I liked. There was no 'I'll have a bite of yours' or 'we'll share' meaning one person wolfed it all down before the other got a chance. He split the green beans down the middle, almost as if he were counting them, and dished them out. There were three gyoza dumplings, so he got a knife and cut the third in half before transferring exactly 1.5 to each plate. Oh, and of course none of the food touched any of the other food; every portion was precisely one centimetre apart from its neighbour. How absolutely and typically Ralf. The only exception was the wine, of which he poured me a full glass, but took only half a glass for himself, insisting that he was not much of a drinker.

As I watched him as he divided up our meal, a thought sprung into my head. "Ralf, I know you have one sister. But is she older, or younger than you?"

"She is eight years older than me. Why?"

I laughed. "I have a brother only two years older than me. It has always made me very protective of my belongings, especially my food, for fear that it will be... commandeered."

"No." He shook his head slowly as he sat back and transferred his plate to his lap. "She is nearly a generation older than me - in more ways than one. She was born before the war, you see. Then my father, as a surgeon, was forced into the war effort. He was away from the family for a number of years. Afterwards, when my father returned from the front, almost as an afterthought, then followed me. I believe in English, this phenomenon was called the Baby Boom? But my sister grew up under very different circumstances that I did. And by the time there was me, it was almost as if I had two mothers."

"So this is what formed your early character," I teased. "Your sister spoiled you."

"No," he said quietly, and I could sense his mood change, from light-hearted to slightly sad. "She tried to make up for parental neglect. I think in many ways, both of my parents favoured my sister. She was far more obedient than me, far easier to control. And she... well, she and my parents, the three of them had lived through the war, which I had not. The war brought my sister and my mother closer together, the experiences which they had shared. Experiences no child should ever go through. She grew up so fast, she was already an adult by the time I was born. But I think my father and I... well, I think he expected military discipline, which is the furthest thing from anything that my generation ever wanted. And this forced us apart."

I looked at him carefully, thinking this was perhaps the most personal thing he had ever told me. It had been like pulling teeth to get any biographical details about his family from him at all, for the book. And yet, though I knew this was crucial for truly understanding him, I knew I would never be allowed to put this detail in the book.

"Do you think that's why we fit together, so well," I said very quietly. "We are both under-appreciated younger siblings, always looking for that sense of approval?"

He laughed wryly, as he always did whenever I tried to draw conclusions from his childhood. "Well, I don't know about that. Most of the people I have been close to have been older siblings. Florian, as you know, was the eldest of three. My wife is the eldest of five, and Gudrun the second of four. So I don't think you can accuse me of having a preference there, Doctor Freud."

I looked at him carefully, thinking, well, there was the pattern. "Perhaps not." I took a bite of food, then mused thoughtfully on this, even as he continued to shake his head. "Why do you always resist it, whenever I try to suggest that your family and your childhood might have shaped you?"

"Katrin," he said, with an almost pitying air. "I am seventy. These things you want to dig up happened so long ago I have almost forgotten them. I have grown up. I have had a family of my own. I do not see the point of endlessly rehashing the past. I look always to the future. And at the moment, my future involves eating a delicious meal, and then going to bed with my delightful mistress."

The word seemed to catch in my brain, and I felt my face growing hot. Mistress? Was that what I had become? I felt an odd sensation of panic in the pit of my belly. I had never in my life considered that I might become a mistress. It seemed so sordid. _Lover_ had sounded erotic and sexy. _Affair_ had had a whiff of naughtiness to it. But _mistress_?

But then he picked up my glass of wine and handed it to me, then claimed his own. "A toast," he said. "To our stolen night of love." Then a pause as he licked his lips nervously. "I hope the first of many stolen nights of love."

Rather than waiting for me to meet his wineglass, he pressed his own forwards until it clinked with mine. He drank immediately, but I stared at my wine for a moment, wondering what I was agreeing to. But then I realised what he meant by 'mistress'. He was trying to tell me that this was not a single night of fucking to get it out of our systems. This was a relationship that he expected to continue.

My first thought, to be honest, was relief. I raised my glass gently towards him, then drank. He smiled gratefully and started to eat his dinner, settling back on the sofa and moving his legs towards me. Really, I was tempted to take them and pull them onto my lap, hugging them to me greedily. I did not want to let the doubts in, not yet. I didn't want to think about whether what I was doing was wrong or right. I didn't want to think about whether just being someone's mistress was what I was prepared to settle for. I just wanted to enjoy the evening ahead with my handsome lover. Twisting sideways, I pulled my knees up onto the wide sofa, and he nudged me with his toes. Laughing, I admitted his legs onto my lap, then rested my dinner plate on his shins, as the two of us curled together, even as we ate.

Eating and sex;  we alternated these pleasures one after the other for most of the night. After our heavy meal, both of us retired to bed for a luxurious nap, but after about an hour or so of dozing, we somehow found our way into each others' arms again, for a far more leisurely and lazy coupling, lying together on our sides, our legs tangled together, half asleep and yet still joined together by the sensual pleasure of him inside me. This time, he wanted me to come first, searching between my legs with his hand. I guided him to pull me towards orgasm, then lay back sleepily as he tried for his own.

"Forgive me," he murmured into my ear. "I am old. This may take some time."

"We have all night," I reminded him, squeezing him gently. "And tomorrow, if you wake before me..."

"But you always wake before me!"

"I am still on British time. You will wake before me. And I want you to start again, as soon as you wake up."

"You want me to start without you? Are you sure?" he breathed in my ear.

"I'm sure." I was half asleep when he came, feeling his arm tighten across my belly as his breath grew short. He was quiet, much like I was, but with a very distinctive short series of pants, and then a long breath like a sigh. I tried to hold him between my legs for as long as possible, but as he shrank, he slipped out. Instead, I rolled over and buried my face in his chest, wrapping my arms around his waist. The smell of pheromones and the warmth of his skin against mine soothed me, and I was soon fast asleep.

I woke a few times in the night, padded to the bathroom, then somehow managed to worm my way back into his arms again. He slept heavily. I already knew that, and thankfully there was no turbulence to wake him. After so long, I couldn't quite get used to the sensation of another body in the bed with me, constantly needing to touch him to make sure that he was real. But somehow, he managed to make it work, nuzzling towards me affectionately in his sleep whenever I poked him, wrapping his arms about me to still me.

True to my prediction, he woke first, and as I had asked, he woke me by sliding gently inside me. He was growing more skilled at manipulating my body, and I was growing used to him. I had come before I even opened my eyes, and he followed soon after. As he sloped off to the bathroom to relieve himself, I took my morning pill, then set up the coffeemaker, though I needed water from the bathroom.

I knocked on the door tentatively, wondering how quickly lovers got used to these things. "I need water for the coffeemaker. Is it alright if I come in? I promise I won't look."

"The door is unlocked; I don't care if you do."

I did my best to avoid looking at the naked middle-aged man standing with slouched shoulders in front of the toilet, as I rinsed and then refilled the carafe. "We better get a move-on. We've not much time until check-out," I warned him.

But he smiled at me, shaking drops briskly off the end of his cock before flushing and putting the seat down, like a well-trained husband. "We could always stay another day," he suggested, his voice very low as he moved beside me to wash his hands.

I stared at our reflections in the mirror, two chubby, tired-looking middle-aged people with sagging, scarred, imperfect bodies, who just happened to have fallen utterly and irredeemably in both lust and love. The bright lights of the bathroom mirror picked out the long, silvery scar down his chest in high definition, and were completely unforgiving on my floppy belly, that never seemed to diminish, no matter how hard I cycled. No one would ever think these old bodies erotic. And yet, looking at him, I felt emotions so strong my knees almost wanted to shake.

" _Can_ you stay?" I asked, my voice taut with worry.

"It is as I told you. I have said I am meeting a much-delayed business associate in Brussels. I need only to text, to let... to let my family know my plans." His voice stumbled, and I noted that he could not quite bring himself to say _my wife_.

"Do you want to?" I whispered.

Now he was staring at our reflections in the mirror, but he was clearly not looking with eyes of scrutiny, but with eyes of love, because he put his arm around my shoulders and squeezed gently, kissing my upper arm with tenderness. "Very much so," he said, resting his head against me and smiling up at the mirror. But then he grinned impishly, and gave my buttock a little squeeze. "Come on, take a shower and get dressed. I will prepare the coffee, then we will go out for breakfast."


	2. Frankfurt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ralf and Katrin share one more magical day, before returning to Düsseldorf and the problems of their now-complicated lives.

When I got out of the shower, his mobile phone stared at me reproachfully from the bedside table, but he did not mention his family again. He smiled and handed me a cup of coffee, and we drank. He had taken his contact lenses out during the night, but not replaced them in the morning, so he was wearing his heavy, black-rimmed glasses. Oddly, they made him look somehow more anonymous, and yet also more himself, or at least my mental image of him. He looked slightly younger in them, but also more intellectual, more like a hip architect than an ageing pop star. But maybe, in another life, that was what he would have been. I liked him better in glasses. I felt like he was _my Ralf_ in glasses.

After letting the receptionist know that we would be staying another night, we retrieved Ralf's car from the garage, and drove into Frankfurt. Frankfurt, to my disappointment, was an ugly city. It wasn't sleek and pretty and well-designed, like Düsseldorf, it was just acres of shiny, mile-high chrome and glass. Even their "Altstadt" seemed somehow ostentatious and glitzy, with gaudy wooden-framed houses, rather than the well-balanced and handsome brick of medieval Düsseldorf. The city was an international banking centre, Ralf told me, as we drove about, turning our noses up at anonymous yuppie-looking bistros. They were far too busy making money to care about beauty or good design. Neither of us found any of the options the slightest bit appetising.

"This is no good," said Ralf, turning the car around, and taking a bridge out of the city. "To the South, there is forest. I know there is a restaurant in the middle of the forest, on a lake, which you will like much better than this."

"In this weather, will it be open?" I asked, as the car climbed up into the forest, and patches of snow started to appear between the trees.

"Yes, I think so." We got a little lost, as Ralf could not quite remember the way. Both of us were very hungry, but for some reason, neither of us were sharp with one another. Maybe we were still high on lovemaking, maybe it just felt like an adventure. Even in the winter, with the branches bare, the twisted old trees of the forest were still very beautiful, and I was enjoying the drive. But finally, we crossed tram-tracks, and Ralf remembered that there was a tram out from the city to the biergarten, so we turned around and followed alongside the tracks until we found a sign. So t it was nearly noon by the time we found the place, a huge wooden building like a barn, in the middle of the forest.

As we climbed out of the car, it had started to sprinkle gently with snow, so Ralf put out an arm to steady me, or maybe himself, as we made our way inside. As he had promised, it was indeed open, in fact it was quite warm and welcoming, with a huge round Scandinavian style fire lighting up the large dining room.

>>Two for brunch<< said Ralf, in his soft, self-assured voice.

>>Of course. Would you prefer to be seated by the fire, or by the windows? I'm afraid there won't be much of a view with the snow coming on.<<

When I saw the view out the window, into deep forest, dusted with snow, I felt as though I had stepped into some kind of fairy tale. >>Oh, by the window, please!<<

"You will not be cold, my love?" said Ralf, his forehead creasing.

"I'm never cold,"I told him, taking the chair closest to the window and gazing out into the woods.

"You're always on time, you're never cold, are you sure you're not secretly German?" he teased, sitting opposite me and picking up a menu.

After some discussion of whether it was acceptable for both of us to order the same thing, we both plumped for the special of the day, which was waffles with 'winter berries'. Ralf negotiated with the waitress to have his berries and his sauce and his cream on the side, so I teased him about self-assembly breakfast as they arrived in various bits of crockery. But mine came in a great pink and white mountain of waffle and whipped cream and thick syrupy sauce. What kind of berries the small, sweet purple things were supposed to be, I wasn't entirely sure, but they tasted delicious. Even better was the coffee, dark and rich, with a hint of spice.

I watched Ralf eat; I always found the way he managed food so curious and so amusing. He would cut a small, precise square of waffle, then add exactly one berry, a dab of cream, and then dole out the same tiny measure of syrup from a teaspoon, so that each bite was exactly the same. It was just so absolutely Ralf that I wanted to reach out and hug him, but at the same time, I knew he'd be mortified if I pointed it out, so I remained quiet, just watching, amused.

The conversation was sparse, but it did not feel uncomfortable at all. Sometimes we stared out into the snow, watching it pile up on branches or patches of frozen ground; sometimes we just looked at one another, studying one another's faces as if trying to memorise them. I loved that it no longer felt rude or awkward to stare; we both felt entitled to look all we liked, without permission or explanation, lapsing into long, thoughtful silences as we just gazed. I adored just looking into his eyes, knowing the intelligence and the affection that looked back. But silences between us were _easy_. I didn't feel the pressure to entertain him by chatting. There was a certain faraway look he got in his eyes, which I knew meant that he was thinking, and content to just sit. (Just as I knew there was a certain helpless look he would sometimes throw me, which meant that he wanted to talk, or at least be talked _to_ , but didn't know how to start a conversation.)

When we finished our massive feasts, we debated another coffee, but I wanted to go for a walk, down to the lake. Really, I was panting to be out in the snow, as it had been years since I had been out in a proper snow flurry. The waitress came over and made a suggestion, telling us that the snow was likely to be quite wet, but that we could borrow a large, double umbrella if we wanted to walk down to the lake, then have another coffee on our return. We were the only diners in the place, so I don't really know if they were trying to get rid of us, or trying to encourage us to stay.

But Ralf laughed. >>I can see, from the excited expression on your face, that we will have no peace until you have had your little walk. Thank you, yes. We shall borrow the umbrella, and have another coffee on our return.<<

Outside, Ralf took command of the umbrella, and unfurled it, holding it carefully over both our heads as we slipped and slid our way down the path. But once we got off the compacted and slightly icy path into virgin snow, the going was easier, our boots crunching as they sunk down into the fresh snow. As we left the paved terrace, we passed a large, bronze sculpture of a pig, sitting on its haunches, smiling, its pointed nose thrust expectantly into the air as its head accumulated a soft, fluffy white hat of snow.

"Look," said Ralf, thrusting his own very pointed nose up into the snow and grinning as widely as the swine. "It is your boyfriend."

I laughed and patted his protruding belly. "You still have some way to go."

We picked our way carefully past the ghosts of a beergarden, shut up for winter, and now covered with a soft blanket of white. I was glad that it was quiet, though. Busy and full of people, the magic of the forest, sparkling and glistening with snow, might have been spoiled. But alone, the pair of us in the snowy woods, we held hands and linked arms under the umbrella, huddling together for warmth as we pushed on into the brisk afternoon. We stopped by the water, and stood for a few minutes, watching the snow starting to merge with a thin skin of ice.

He snaked his arm around my waist, and I leaned my head against his shoulder, then slowly our bodies turned towards one another until our mouths were almost touching. A huge snowflake blew into his face, and caught on his eyelashes, but I breathed on it until it melted, and next thing I knew, we were snogging. It still felt amazing to me, this novelty that I could actually act on these urges, that I could turn towards him and just kiss him. No angst, no endless fruitless wanting, just the soft warmth of his mouth against mine, the plumes of our breath misting up our glasses. As he pulled me closer, trying to cup the back of my head in his hand, he lost his hold on the umbrella, which slipped to the ground. Snow started to dust our hair and shoulders, melting from the heat of our embrace.

Finally, he pulled away, running his hand over his forehead. "It's getting a bit wet."

"It's not that wet," I laughed, flicking my hand through my hair to dislodge the snow.

"You have more hair than I," he pointed out with a smile.

"Not that much more," I protested. Since I had moved to Germany, my hair seemed to have got shorter and shorter, as Müller's friend cut it as short as a boy in the back, leaving only my fringe in front.

But Ralf smiled as he looked over my hair with a proprietorial air, flicking off a newly landed clump of snow. "I like girls with short hair," he confessed. "I think it's very sexy. That curve, at the nape of your neck, I find it quite erotic to see it exposed."

I just grinned back at him, not entirely knowing how to react. I suppose it was a relief to realise that he did, really, like me the way I was. That he was not going to hassle me to change for him.

Picking up the umbrella again, he threaded his arm back through mine, and we continued our path around the lake. "It is so relaxing to be out, amidst nature. We should do this more often. I find it settles the mind, quiet contemplation, walking in the woods. We have spent too much time cooped up together in that office. I think maybe we would be calmer if we spent more time out in the wild."

"I would not object."

We walked as far as a picturesque wooden bridge, spanning the lake at a narrow point, and climbed to the top of its arch. All about us was silent, and white, and still, as we stood, looking back across the lake, where the restaurant lay huddled among the trees.

"I would love to take a photo..." mused Ralf, reaching for his bag, but then he seemed to change his mind. "Better not."

"Why not?" I asked stupidly.

"I am not supposed to be here," he reminded me gently, and a small shiver went down my spine.

"Just one selfie," I suggested, digging in my jacket for my phone. "No one else needs to know about it. But when I am really old, I want to be able to look back on today, just one photo, and remember... that was what it was like to be truly happy."

Ralf looked at me slightly soppily, then nodded swiftly. "Alright."

I extracted my phone, turned it on, and then handed it to him. As I nestled against his chest, he held it up, trying to capture the woods, the lake, the snow, the picturesque bridge, and us. It was a terrible photo, the horizon tilted at an odd angle, my face blurred because I was laughing, his chins buried in his scarf at an angle that made him look distinctly chubby, snowflakes obscuring the view, but both of us did look truly and completely happy.

By the time we got back to the restaurant, despite my bold words, my inadequate coat was wet quite through. I had been dressed for a mild English winter, not a snowy German forest. But as we made our way back inside, knocking the snow off our boots at the door, I saw that the staff had cleared our table, and set up two comfortable chairs by the wood fire. There was even a coat stand to hang our wet things over to dry. We ordered another round of coffees to warm up, and Ralf decided he even had room for a small pastry. I tutted and told him he should watch his heart, and he scoffed and said that he was sure I would give him plenty of exercise to work it off once we got back to the hotel. I grinned and nibbled my lip, thinking exactly what kind of exercises I would be putting him through.

As the clock struck noon, a family arrived for lunch. Soon after, a party of businessmen drove up, and the hall started to be merry with chatter. The staff had moved us, because they needed the tables for lunch. We looked at one another, and we both knew that it was time to move on. As he settled the bill, paying as always in cash. I noted that he left a particularly large tip. I don't know why, but that just made me happy. I knew Ralf was far more inclined to be generous when he was in a good mood.

Although he suggested going for a drive further up into the forest, as we sat in the car waiting for the engine to warm up, it started really snowing in earnest. We looked at one another, and without asking, we both knew we were going back to the hotel to hole up in bed to escape the snow. Ralf was an excellent driver, and the expensive car handled well in the snow, but the traffic snarled around us, and I was relieved to get back to the underground safety of the parking garage.

Upstairs, the room had been cleaned and aired out, but every inch of carpet seemed to remind me of sex. I wanted just to crawl into bed with Ralf and never get out, but instead I walked to the window, staring out into what was becoming a bit of a snowstorm, as the world outside slowly turned white.

"Maybe it will snow so hard that we will be stuck here forever," I sighed, as I felt my lover come up behind me and wrap his arms around my waist.

"Perhaps," said Ralf with a smile, then went to close the curtains.

"Please... just don't. No one can see us all the way up here. I want to watch the snow. We don't get it very often in England." To prove my point about being hidden, I started to peel off my clothes, before heading to bed.

"As you wish," agreed Ralf.  He kicked off his shoes, but waited to climb under the covers before he started to peel off his clothes. And then we kind of collapsed into one another, as if we could physically merge by pressing our skins so close. When he was inside me, the entire world felt as beautiful and warm as that open fireplace where we had basked to melt the snow.

I fell asleep wrapped in my lover's arms, and dreamed of the end of the world. It snowed and snowed until we were completely buried, up to the twelfth floor of the building. But so long as Ralf was with me, I felt no panic. We just lay in bed, snuggled up together as the snow came in through the windows and under the doors, flooding the room and raising the bed on a wave of white.

But when I woke, he was no longer by my side. Groggily, I sat up and looked about, only to see him curled on the sofa, watching the weather reports.

He noticed I was awake, and gestured towards the table. "If you are hungry, I ordered food. I saved you some, on the tray there."

I picked up the half a sandwich and assorted cold salads, and moved over to join him on the sofa, curling up beside him. "Are we snowed in?" I asked.

"Well, we might be," he said gravely, putting his arm around me. "I am in Belgium, remember? But fortunately, it seems the storm stretches up as far as the Netherlands. Would you stay with me another day?"

"I would stay with you forever," I murmured, burying my face in the folds of his neck.

"Oh, Katrin," he said, nuzzling his face against the top of my hair. "Don't make promises you know you can't keep."

It seemed such an odd thing to say that I shivered. "Are you trying to get rid of me already?" I said, trying to keep my voice light-hearted, teasing, but I knew it was not a light question.

"I have never _got rid of_ anyone in my life," he said, with a weight that made me realise he was telling the truth. "In erotic relationships, I am always the one who is left."

Raising my head, I looked at him curiously, but as I opened my mouth to speak, he laid one finger against my lips.

"No, don't. I know that you will leave me, too. It is just the way of these things."

Resisting the urge to fire back a cheap shot, I stifled my initial impulses, and just looked at him, puzzled. "If you have already decided how it will end, before it's even really begun, then what chance have I got?"

"Let us not spoil the mood by debating it now?" replied Ralf in his most pragmatic voice, shifting so that he was lying against my chest, rubbing his cheek gently back and forth across my nipple. I did not actually have it in me, physically, to make love again, but I did not want to fight, so I folded him against me and held him as we both watched the television, without sound, showing the weather report over and over.

At some point in the night, the wind changed. Warmer air blew up from the South, batting the weather front back up towards Scandinavia. Snow turned to rain, and by the time it dawned (we woke with the sun, for neither of us had thought to close the curtains) it had turned to a rapidly melting grey slush. Our idyll was over; it was time to return home.

We packed up in a rush; there was no time even for a morning quickie. I took a shower, then packed up as he bathed, wondering if I would regret the lost opportunity. We settled up downstairs, pretending that we had a newly booked flight to rush to. I asked sweetly if we could pay cash, to get rid of our last Euros, while Ralf kept insisting it was fine, that the exchange rate had held. There was a bit of a funny moment as the receptionist, still believing that we were an English couple, complimented Ralf on his German accent, but they accepted the cash without a fuss. The whole thing had been accomplished without Ralf's name ever coming into it. I could hardly believe we had got away with it as we headed for his car, piled our suitcases in the boot, and drove off as if we were headed back into the airport. He did a brief circuit, then drove out the other side, and got in the lane for the main autobahn back towards Bonn. We really were going home, and back to our normal lives.

"How long is the drive?" I asked, fiddling with the radio.

"About two and a half hours."

"Time enough," I said.

He shook his head. "Not nearly enough."

"Ralf, I..." Suddenly I felt so helpless, as I realised how tenuous my position really was. He frowned and stared straight ahead at the motorway. I fell silent for a few minutes, then tried again. "Look, Ralf, I know you will never leave your wife, and I would never ask you to. But I just want to know... how do we handle this? What do we do, going forward?"

He swallowed awkwardly, though he still didn't look at me. For a long time, he didn't speak, but I refused to take up the slack, just letting the silence hang there awkwardly until he had to answer. "I think we should let it proceed naturally. Just take it as it comes."

"But when we are back in Düsseldorf, we will not be able to kiss, or hold hands in public, will we? I mean, people are used to seeing us together, used to seeing us holed up behind closed doors, but..." I suddenly wondered how on earth I was going to be able to walk into Klingklang again. Surely, everyone would just see it all over our faces.

Ralf let out a deep sigh, as he realised that we had to have this conversation. "That would seem prudent. I do not wish for anyone to be hurt." By the way he said 'anyone'  knew that he meant Jutta, and not me. "But, as you say, people are used to seeing us retreat behind closed doors. When the doors are locked, we may behave naturally. Otherwise, we must be discreet."

"We won't be able to spend the night together again, will we."

I hadn't noticed the note of panic creep into my voice, but at this, Ralf shifted the gearstick into overdrive, and placed his hand gently on my thigh, patting me to reassure me. "We will find ways to be together," he assured me with a squeeze. "I will make sure of it."

My heart grew heavier as we approached Düsseldorf, my own hand creeping over to his side of the car to touch him for the last time, caressing his cheek, brushing his hair, and squeezing his thigh, though he moved me gently off his cock, telling me that I would distract him from driving. I wanted to ask him to pull off the road, to pull into a lay-by, a deserted parking lot, anywhere we could have a quick snog and maybe even a tumble in the back seat, but Ralf seemed concerned by the time.

He drove into the city, and circled all around the Altstadt before delivering me as close as possible to my door. Parking by the museum, he walked around to the back of the car, and lifted out my suitcase for me, before turning to me, his eyes troubled. I could see that he, too, wanted to kiss me, but we didn't dare.

"I will see you tomorrow at Klingklang, yes?"

"Yes," I sighed. After our third day together, I had thought that I would be chaffing to be free of him, the way that I had sometimes come to be annoyed at him on tour, but I was sad to see him go. My skin felt too cold without him touching it.

He lowered his chin and looked at me carefully, glancing around to make sure that no one could overhear him, before softly saying "I love you."

I nodded, feeling a blush spreading across my face. "I love you, too." I knew that I was the one who was meant to leave, that he would sit in the car and wait, watching me all night if I didn't go into my house, so I bravely pulled my suitcase across the street and waved jauntily as I disappeared into the building.

When I got all the way upstairs, I meant to go to the front window to look out and see if he had moved the car, or if he was just sitting watching the building, but my landlord shrieked aloud as I walked across the dining room.

"Kate! You are back!" he shouted aloud, and I started, for the first time, to rehearse the lie of how I had been stranded in London for days, but caught a flight back to Frankfurt.

I spent the afternoon just trying to readjust to being back at home. I did a small load of laundry, and tried to unpack the best I could. When I remembered I had no food for the coming week, I grabbed my shopping bag and walked to the Rewe in Carlsplatz. Although I had been in England only three weeks, it took some time to readjust to the German products, and locate the correct groceries for the coming week. Milch, Brot, Müsli - it was just different enough to give me pause.

For a moment, I wondered what Ralf was doing, if he was home yet, what he was saying to his wife, but I had to quickly push the thought away. Still, it followed me around the shop, as I tried to imagine Ralf at the supermarket in Krefeld, selecting vegetables with his wife. Would he kiss her? Would he take her in his arms, and... no. Push those thoughts away. Try to remember which of the ponderous black bricks of bread is the one you like.

I shouldered my heavy grocery bag and walked home, wondering when would be too soon to text Ralf. How strange it was that I had once been so irritated by those endless text messages, and now I wanted their reassurance back.

Pushing him out of my mind, I made myself dinner then retreated to my room to write a very long entry in my secret diary. Then I fell back into my nervous tic of Tumblr-surfing. Endless pale, wan, Pre-Raphaelite ladies, and demonic Symbolist paintings and abstract swirling Art Deco chrome ornaments soothed me until I fell asleep.

I fell asleep quite quickly, but as I slept, I had awful dreams. I was on the train from Brussels to Düsseldorf, but when the ticket collector came through, he asked for my passport. I complied, but he asked me to step aside. I asked if there was a problem, but he wouldn't tell me what was wrong, we just stepped off the train and we were in a brightly lit and overcrowded immigration hall. People kept asking me questions in a language that wasn't English, but wasn't German either. I didn't understand, and I was just trying to get my passport back.

>>I have the right to be here; I have a job here<< I repeated, first in German, then in English, but the passport inspector would only speak back to me in this strange guttural sounding Flemmish.

>>Where do you live?<< someone asked, and at least that was similar enough to German that I understood. I tried to explain that I rented a room on the Berger Allee. >>We have no record of you<< said the official, and suddenly I was at the door to my building, ringing the bell and trying to speak to my landlord through the intercom.

>>Sorry, but Klingklang have not paid your rent for this month. You may not come up<< his voice echoed down the faulty connection, and my now comically-small, shrunken key no longer fit the lock when I tried it.

I went to the bank to try to take cash out to pay Karlheinz at least, but at the bank, the manager kept insisting >>No, you do not have an account. Your references did not check out.<<

>>I should just have been paid<< I insisted. >>Klingklang pay on the last Friday of the month. There should be nearly a thousand Euros in my account.<<

>>You have not been paid<< the official told me. >>There has been no bank transfer from anyone.<<

>>But I am an employee of Klingklang<< I insisted, and as I went out into the street, I realised I had no money for the tram. Still, at least I had my bicycle. That was still chained up in the street, and thankfully my keys fit the lock. I cycled over the bridge and out into Meersbuch, the route I normally took to work. But although the approach was familiar, everything looked all wrong. The buildings looked horribly forbidding, even the trees looming menacingly over me. I wheeled my bike up to the entrance and swiped my card in the entry lock, but it would not work. I rattled the door, and pressed the buzzer. >>Let me in. Günter, Müller, let me in, for fucks sake...<< I swiped my pass again, but this time the machine started to let out a whooping alarm, and actually swallowed my card like a bank machine. >>Hey!<< I shouted. >>Let me in!<< As I kicked at the door, the seriousness of my situation started to dawn on me.

I was alone in a foreign country. My apartment, which had been paid for by my illicit lover, was gone. My bank account, which depended on references from that same illicit lover, was gone. My job, at a company owned by that same illicit lover, had vanished. I was fucked.

I woke in a blind panic. Although I tried to reassure myself that it was just a dream, that I was obviously still at my apartment, that Karlheinz had been paid his rent, that my bank account was clearly active and in the black, as my card had been accepted at the Rewe, there was still a churning sensation in the pit of my stomach.

But when I picked up the phone to see what time it was - just gone 3am - I saw that I had missed a text message. From Ralf, of course. "I hope that you are having a good evening. I miss you already. My arms feel so empty. We are watching a programme on Art Nouveau architecture and it makes me think of you. I would love to take you to Vienna to show you. Ah I suppose I will see you tomorrow. Sleep well, my English girl."

The fear in my stomach stilled. It had only been a bad dream. Ralf would not forsake me like that. He was still thinking of me. I still had a hard time getting back to sleep, though, thinking how precarious my position was, and how dependent on my German lover.


	3. Gossip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gossip and coded warnings swirl around Klingklang, as Ralf and Katrin find themselves unable to stop their affair.

The next morning, it was crisp and cold, but the roads were clear enough for cycling. I needed the exercise to clear my head, though I did note that my thighs were showing marks of recently having been punished by other... exercise. It felt good to be on the familiar road, easing back into my old routines. I would get to Klingklang and lock up my bike, then have a cup of tea and a chat with Müller, and everything would be as it was. I could do this.

But as I tapped myself into the building (thank god my card worked on the first attempt; my dream had been inaccurate) and went to the ladies' bathroom to change out of my cycling clothes, I ran almost immediately into Gudrun. She stopped as she walked out of her stall, and stared at me with a genuinely odd expression. I smiled at her, wondering if I should launch into my pre-prepared explanation of the tunnel accident, and being stranded until I could find a flight, but as we both stared, both of us became aware that this silent greeting was highly unusual and perhaps even rude.

>>So he found you<< Gudrun said quietly, eyeing me in the mirror with a meaningful expression as she turned to wash her hands.

>>Who?<< I asked confused, my story disrupted before I could begin to tell it.

>>Ralf<< she said, with a very definite tone that seemed to imply some hidden meaning. >>He was beside himself when the news came through about the tunnel collapse. Obviously, we were all worried, but Ralf was desperate to find a way to _locate_ you. << I did not understand why she was emphasising that word in English the way that she was. Did she think I could not understand her German?

>>Oh, yes of course. We spoke on the phone. It was him who found me the flight back to Germany.<< I tried desperately to get back onto the path of my cover story. >>He booked me the first flight... a flight into, erm...<< The way she was staring at me was so penetrating that I found myself starting to stutter.

>>Frankfurt<< Gudrun supplied. How on earth had she known I had flown into Frankfurt? Had Ralf told her? Or had it been Gudrun that had booked the tickets?

>>Yes, Frankfurt<< I said, nodding, and trying to remember the plot. >>Then of course, there was the snowstorm, so I was stranded...<<

>>Yes<< she interrupted as she dried her hands on a small pink towel. >>Ralf, too, was caught in this snowstorm.<<

I stared at her, suddenly realising what she was trying to imply. But how on earth would she know? >>Ralf, as I understand<< I said very slowly and very carefully. >>Was in Belgium.<<

>>So he must have been<< said Gudrun, then as I was struggling with the awkward German case, changed the subject. >>It was a very good thing you had your German phone with you, yes?<< I stared at her, not entirely catching her meaning. >>So that Ralf was able to _locate_ you so quickly. <<

And at that moment, it clicked. _Locate_ you. There was a reason she had used the English word. A memory popped into my head, of Gudrun typing a command into a phone-tracking app: 'Locate Ralf?' and a tiny green dot popping up on a map.

>>Ralf did not _locate_ me via my phone << I said very quietly. >>He emailed me, and I responded from London. Have you been tracking my Android, though?<<

At that, Gudrun blanched slightly, as she realised she had been caught in a lie, then turned away to quickly brush her hair. >>I found it only by accident<< she confessed, lowering her voice, even though there was no one to overhear. >>Katrin Hütter took advantage of her father's absence to abscond from Pony Club with her boyfriend, rather than wait for her mother to pick her up. Jutta called me, asking if I could use the phone location tracker to find her, and I noticed that Katrin was somehow at the same time, both at a bar in Krefeld that her mother has specifically forbidden her to attend, and also at a hotel airport in Frankfurt.<<

I stared at her, feeling my stomach going all fluttery, my entire reputation hinging on whether she had typed 'locate Ralf?' after typing 'locate Katrin?' >>Yes<< I said, feeling my tongue very thick in my mouth, as Jutta carefully reapplied her lipstick in the mirror. >>My phone has ended up attached to the wrong Katrin, on the wrong account. I was in Frankfurt.<<

>>Look<< she hissed, to my narrowed eyes. >>I do not care why Ralf is in Frankfurt when he says he is in Brussels. It is sausage to me. But I am trying to warn you. If their daughter continues to act so badly, it is only a matter of time before the mother gets the location tracker app for herself.<<

>>Ralf only came to Frankfurt to pick me up. The storm...<<

>>I don't care<< said Gudrun, cutting me off before I could perjure myself further. >>It is not my concern. But for gods sake, be more discreet!<<

With this, she picked up her handbag, whirled around and stalked out of the bathroom, leaving me completely shaken up. So Gudrun knew? No, she couldn't possibly know. She must have been been testing me, pushing me to see what I would reveal. The only thing she could know was that Ralf and I were both in Frankfurt the previous afternoon. I had confessed to nothing, but that Ralf had picked me up. But the implication about Jutta was clear. If Gudrun could access that information about my location, it was only a matter of time before Jutta could too. I _had_ to get rid of the phone.

I changed out of my cycling shirt, then washed quickly, trying to compose myself. No one had any proof of anything, I reminded myself. I just had to adjust my story slightly, and tell Ralf to do the same thing. Taking a deep breath, I walked out into Klingklang, and made my way towards the kitchen to get a cup of tea to steady my nerves.

Oh Christ, there was Müller sitting with her feet up on the table, tackling a piece of electronic gear with a screwdriver. She had a dark tan, which brought out a small constellation of freckles across her cheeks and forehead, which reminded me that she had been away, too. >>Oh, hallo! So you made it out alive<< she called when she saw me.

>>Yes, I had a bit of a narrow escape from the terrorists<< I said as I turned towards the kettle, so she could not see my face.

>>But it wasn't terrorists!<< Müller shouted triumphantly as she cracked open the case of the gadget. >>Have you not seen the news this morning?<<

>>I've been stranded in train stations and airports, and a snowstorm in Frankfurt; I have seen no news for days.<<

>>Frankfurt? Ugh, what a shithole. How did you end up there?<<

The kettle boiled, and I poured it over my teabag. >>Only place there were flights available to. Long story, never mind.<< As I sat opposite her, waiting for the tea to seep, I tried to change the subject. >>What's this about it not being terrorism?<<

>>Oh! It's been in all the German and French newspapers, though apparently it's a scandal that most English papers won't report it. It wasn't terrorism, it was a terrible accident. Bit of a scandal, which is why the English are disputing it. Improperly stored barrels of cleaning fluid left by the side of the tunnel. With the unusually hot temperatures last summer, the fluids got too warm, and expanded and warped the barrels. With the sudden cold snap, they contracted again, and started leaking. A single spark from the track as the train went through, and blam! The whole thing exploded. A tragic accident. Completely preventable, had the fluids been stored correctly, but the French say it's the English's fault as they were English cleaning products, and the English say it's the French's fault as they were on the French side of the tunnel, though the French have no record whatsoever of their ever being there.<<

>>So the whole thing was an accident?<< I asked, feeling very strange about the whole thing. Obviously, I was relieved that it had not been terrorism, but the idea that all those people had been killed... that my whole life had been turned upside down over a senseless and careless accident?

>>Completely. Now they know it's not terrorism, they've got trains moving again through the other tunnel, but the lawsuits will last for years. Anyway, I'm glad you're back. It's been so dull without you. Got any gossip from England?<<

>>Nothing much to tell. Quiet family Christmas. Mum drove me nuts. More to the point, you're the one with the gossip. How was Mexico? You look like you caught some sun.<<

The smile lit up her entire face. >>Mexico was... yeah, Mexico was really good. It was amazing to go back there. Loved it just as much as the first time. You know, the weather, the food... the people. Such beautiful women.<<

>>Such beautiful women... including Graciella?<<

Müller actually blushed. I had never seen her do anything of the sort before. >>Yeah, Graciella is... wow, yes, that woman is attractive. She has a body that just won't quit... I mean, we didn't just stay in Mexico City. We drove down to the coast, where her parents have a holiday house. Lying on the beach all day, drinking and and dancing and screwing all night... I could get used to that kind of lifestyle. Yeah. It was amazing. Graciella is... amazing.<<

The word she used, wunderschön, a mixture of wonderful and beautiful, was far more expansive than I'd ever heard her apply to a conquest before. >>You sound smitten. So when are you moving?<<

>>Hey, let's not be too hasty<< she protested.

>>Alright, well, have you made plans to see her again?<<

She grinned and raised her eyebrows suggestively. >>She's coming to Germany in February. OK, yeah, this is kind of corny, but don't give me a hard time about it, alright? She says she's got a surprise planned for Valentine's Day.<<

>>Valentine's Day?<< I repeated, barely believing my ears. >>You?<<

>>I have never been much for the holiday, but I guess it's kind of special to her? Anyway, I've found I really like Graciella's surprises. They tend to be... uuuhhh... sexy kind of surprises. So I'm excited.<<

I just stared at her, too shocked to speak. But as I could see the insecurity starting to flicker in her eyes, I realised that she was actually kind of nervous about the whole thing, and wanted reassurance, rather than to be teased. >>That sounds amazing actually. I hope you two have a brilliant time. Wouldn't mind seeing her again, if you wanted to bring her round the local for a beer?<<

Müller grinned. >>Yeah, I might. She'd like that. And it'd be kind of cool if she got along with my friends. I... I like her a lot. She's really cool. Not just incredibly sexy, but... well. Cool. Very cool.<< And then she started to look embarrassed, and started poking intensely at her metal box again.

I changed the subject, I hoped gracefully. >>That would be nice, to meet her again, yeah. And anyway. What on earth is this box of sprockets you're working on?<<

Müller's face flooded with relief to be back on the neutral territory of gadgets again. Müller. The biggest pedlar of gossip in Klingklang. >>Ah, now this beastie... This is a 1977 era Moog oscillator that someone yanked out of a Moog and stuck in an effects pedal. If I can get it out again, I can maybe fix Ralf's old spare that won't stay in tune<< she informed me with a glimmer to her eye, and started telling me about bargains she had scored in Mexico over the Christmas break, cannibalising parts to fix up some of the older synths in the Klingklang collection. The band never used them onstage any more, but Ralf insisted on keeping them all in working order, as he maintained that it was impossible to duplicate the authentic sounds without going to the source. For as much as Ralf liked to talk about newness and forward motion, he seemed to have a pathological inability to ever completely let go of the past.

We were still chatting when I heard the door downstairs slam, and that typical bouncing step that meant Ralf was on his way in. Both Müller and I heard him call hello to Gudrun, and she guiltily snaked her feet off the table as she threw me a look.

>>The Boss is here. Bet you didn't miss His Master's Voice, did you? Guess break time is over<< she laughed, and I knew she meant it as a joke, but I felt my breath catch in my throat.

Oh, Christ. I had hoped to meet Ralf alone, to get used to the new arrangement in a work setting, but it seemed like we were going to have an audience. But in another sense, I found I was actually glad that Ralf and I would not be alone, the first time we met at Klingklang on our new footing. It would remind me to be careful, to be discreet, as Gudrun had warned. I had so carefully kept the topic on Müller's lovelife and off my own, and I wanted to keep it that way.

>>Hallo, Müller, good to see your feet on the floor<< blustered Ralf, sounding in an extraordinarily good mood as he walked in. Then he turned and saw me, and as he smiled, I felt my heart pounding in my chest, feeling like my face must have been flushing, my entire body pulsing with adrenaline. His eyes were extraordinarily blue in the bight morning sunlight. >>Katrin, good to have you back. I will see you in my office in five minutes, yes?<<

>>Would you like me to bring you a coffee?<< I offered, feeling like my heart was surely pounding so strong that everyone in the room had to be able to see it, right through my shirt.

He looked at me, and our eyes locked together as his whole face flooded with pleasure, and I could only guess at the memories he was reliving. >>Yes, please. The coffee always tastes sweeter when you bring it.<<

I had to turn away so Müller didn't see my face flush bright red. But still, she hooted with laughter as Ralf climbed the stairs to his office. >>I bet you didn't miss that.<< As I said nothing, fussing with the coffee machine, she started to imitate Ralf, clearly trying to wind me up. >>A coffee, Katrin! Another coffee Katrin. One more coffee, from my human coffee maschine-ah, Katrina!<<

By the time the coffee was done, I had managed to regain my composure, and stuck my tongue out at her as I turned around. >>He gets to call me Katrin because he pays me. To you, I am still Kate.<<

I took a deep breath as I reached the top of the stairs, then walked along the catwalk to his office, so familiar, and yet now oddly charged. As I walked in, I saw he hadn't even got as far as the shower yet; he was just sitting on the edge of the sofa, going through a few bits of post that had accumulated in his absence. He looked up and smiled, as I approached and put the coffee cup on the table in front of him.

>>Did you lock the door?<< he asked softly.

I walked back and closed the door, then locked it, turning around and leaning back against it, biting my lip with anticipation. The whole office, that beautiful soft matte black and chrome art deco office seemed charged with erotic energy as I wondered how he would react.

He took a sip of coffee, then stood up and slowly walked towards me, like a man in a dream, his unruly windswept hair and his tight black cycling pants giving him the air of Conrad Veidt's somnambulist. I took a step towards him, and next thing I knew, we were in each others' arms, kissing passionately, as if it had been 18 days since we last saw each other, rather than 18 hours. I couldn't get enough of him, his tongue in my mouth, my fingers in his hair, our hands searching for each others' bodies. Somehow I backed around, got up on his desk, my shirt unbuttoned, his mouth on my breasts as I pulled at his cycling trousers, trying to work out the flies on the damned things.

>>Do you want this?<< he gasped as my legs went around him. >>Do you want this as much as I do?<<

>>Maybe even more<< I assured him, sucking his tongue into my mouth and raking my teeth across it before letting him go.

>>Turn around and bend over<< he instructed, and I liked the sternness in his voice. I did as I was told, bracing myself against the desk as I could feel him unbuttoning my jeans, pulling both trousers and pants down about my ankles. He managed to free his cock from the cycling pants, and entered me roughly, without foreplay, but I realised that I had been wet since he had walked into the kitchen. His body slammed into mine, pushing me against the desk, but I wrapped my fingers around the edge, taking care to avoid the panic button, and clung on for dear life. I wanted him to use me even harder, wanted him to mash me into oblivion, but I could feel his hand snaking in front of me, pushing between my legs. Oh god, he really intended to get me off. I moved my legs together, trapping his hand, and pushed back at him, showing him the speed that I needed. I didn't even want one of those long, grinding soul-orgams, I just wanted to get off, now. Could I even come like this, upside-down, pushed up against the surface of his desk? His hand grew more insistent, and I realised I might just. No longer caring about his body except as a tool for my own pleasure, I pressed my hand on top of his, and started to grind him into me. Yes, there it was. I coaxed my building excitement, feeling a spark building into a flame as he started to pant very erratically, that odd tone he got when he was about to come.

>>No, no, Ralf, just one more moment...<< I begged.

>>I will try to hold on.<<

I started to laugh, feeling it building beneath his fingers. >>It helps when you speak German in my ear.<<

>>Anything I can do to help, my love<< he breathed. I clenched down, and rammed his fingers against me, and felt my orgasm shudder to life, snatching the breath from me as my head spun. It was neither particularly deep, nor particularly long, but still, it reassured me as my body pulsed to a sense of peace. We were still in love.

>>There. Now you can come<< I panted, as I caught my breath.

"Ja, meine Führerin," he teased, then fell against me, increasing his intensity until he, too, shuddered against me, then fell still.

We held each other for only a moment, but without the excitement of sex, it was too uncomfortable, hunched over, half on, half off the desk. Pulling out of me, he climbed off me awkwardly, kissing my shoulder as he went. Both of us were flushed, a little out of breath, and maybe slightly shocked by what we'd just done.

>>Come here and sit down<< he urged, pulling his pants straight so that he could walk, then moving over to the sofa. I followed, deciding to just leave my jeans in a messy pile on the floor. >>Let me just hold you a moment.<<

>>It's a good thing you hadn't taken your shower yet. You will need another<< I laughed, pushing back that single rebellious curl that always slipped down into his face.

>>I don't want to<< he said very quietly, squeezing me tightly. >>I want to lie here with you, feeling your heartbeat. It's a shame we can't just work like this, lying together on the sofa.<<

>>Well, they call it a laptop for a reason... except it is next door.<<

>>Go and fetch it, then!<< He slapped my bare rump affectionately.

>>Not without my clothes. The whole studio can see the catwalk, and I'm not prancing about Klingklang naked.<<

>>And deprive my associates of the beautiful view? I'm sure Falk would be devastated to miss such a performance.<<

>>Absolutely not. Can you imagine what Falk would do? I think he might explode.<< I didn't think there was the ghost of a flirtation with Falk, but it seemed to amuse Ralf to think that there might be, grinning away at the thought, as if he now enjoyed seeing me as the object of other men's admiration.

>>Ach, I suppose you are right. What a nuisance. But it's more delightful to sit with a naked woman on my lap.<<

After about ten minutes, I persuaded him to get up and take a shower, as I was worried that his clothes would start to smell of me. The hotel had taken care of the sex-stained sheets in Frankfurt, but I was worried of sitting on that black lycra, with his semen still curdling inside me. He offered to let me shower, but I said it would look suspicious if I emerged with wet hair. Finally, a compromise was reached; he would detach the shower head and personally clean my lower half, a task I think he really rather relished a little too much. 

The bathroom itself was tiny, and the shower was Dutch style, with no stall, just a tiled floor with a drain at one end. We cleaned ourselves up the best we could, dried ourselves out in the office, then I dressed and slipped out to fetch the laptop. No one paid me the slightest attention. I was back in his office in a few minutes, the door locked behind me.

He was right, though. It was actually nice, for the two of us to curl together on the sofa as we worked, our legs intertwined and his arm around my shoulders. After nearly three weeks without the manuscript, I felt refreshed and ready to take it on again. I started to read, where we had left off, and felt myself caught up in the story again.

>>Wait wait, you go too fast<< complained Ralf, as I advanced the page before he was done.

>>I never thought of you as a slow reader<< I teased.

>>It is in English. I would like to see you read that fast in German! It takes you ten minutes to read a menu. Ow! What was that for?<< He took my hand and kissed it to stop me pinching him again. "Now where were we? I know you find it more erotic when I speak to you in German, but I need to think in English to focus on this."

We started to edit the most recent chapter together. Instead of me emailing it off to him for approval, and him sitting hunched in front of his computer, annotating his comments in red text before sending it back to me, we lay on the sofa with the laptop between us, or balanced on my lap, or his lap, or passed it back and forth between us. At first it was slightly strange, as I felt a bit defensive, when he picked out things at random to query. But soon I realised that it was much faster, and actually more enjoyable. As he asked about a word I had chosen for its alliterative properties, but he felt was not quite right, we talked through the etymology, before I proposed a plethora of alternatives. He enjoyed this immensely, asking me to talk through the connotation of each, even occasionally consulting the desktop dictionary before he selected which he preferred. Although we definitely got sidetracked sometimes, they were interesting digressions, and it soon turned out easier to make substitutions quickly, with a brief discussion rather than drawn out email edits.

"No, no, I was not troubled by Flür's behaviour at that time." I had already noted how he named his former colleagues: Florian was always Florian, or 'My Partner'; Karl remained Karl, as if there were no other Karl in the city, and occasionally I had to confirm "Bartos, ja?" But Flür was only ever spoken of by his surname, spat out like a nasty bit of gristle, an indelicate thing Ralf wished to purge from his mouth and his mind. "Troubled is when you eat an overly spiced bowl of soup before bedtime, and the subject disagrees with you like garlic disagrees with a bad tummy."

I laughed aloud. "That's a beautiful metaphor, and I'm going to steal it," I warned him, typing it in another window.

"I did not feel troubled. I felt actually _betrayed_ by Flür. Like a stab in the back, from someone I had once trusted, even considered close. But no, no, no, don't put that in the book, or he will start to play the victim again... That's the kind of psychopath that man is. Absolutely everything is always all about him. He will stab you in the back, and then complain 'how dare you malign me by calling me a murderer, how can you insult me so' while you are still bleeding to death!"

Again, I couldn't help but laugh at Ralf's odd sense of humour. I often had to work very hard, to adequately capture his humour in the book, but the problem was, his funniest lines were the ones I knew he would never allow me to pubish. His cattiness, often directed at his former colleagues, seemed to be the way that he dealt with loss, deflecting it into humour. "Well, maybe we'll find another word for betrayed, when we get into that part. But right now, I'm just trying to flag up that you had discovered he was putting some stories out about you, and you felt... concerned about this."

Ralf frowned, the lines above his brows deepening, until I wanted to smooth them away with my fingertips. "I was more than concerned."

"Alarmed?" I suggested.

"Yes, alarmed. I was most alarmed, to hear these reports. The man is a liar. How do you say... a compulsive liar. An habitual liar.." As Ralf's emotions became engaged, his German accent became so strong he dropped his H's almost like a cockney.

And on we went, picking apart my prose, word by word, line by line. In a way, it was an even more intimate thing to be doing than having sex, for sex only involved our bodies. Collaborating as we were, between his memories, and my words, we were actually letting one another inside the most secret parts of our minds. As we wrote more and more together, talking almost at the same time as one another, me typing, him pointing at the screen as if physically wanting to touch my words, I realised that it was absolutely no wonder that we'd ended up in bed together. Writing his own personal story like this was such an intimate thing to be doing, it was no wonder that we'd fallen in love, and that the intimacy had become erotic. It was the most intimate thing I'd ever done, even more intimate than drawing someone naked, or making music with them. Writing was my thing, my voice, the voice I turned to when I needed to express myself, and here we were doing it together, out voices merging into one.

We wrote for several hours, before he finally stretched, and untangled himself from me, lifting the laptop to allow his leg out from under it. "Katrin, I am hungry. Aren't you?"

"I hadn't actually noticed. When I'm writing, I lose track of time, I lose track of food or hunger, or anything, really," I confessed.

"Well. You keep on writing, then. I will go downstairs and get dinner for us. Would you like another cup of tea, then?"

I looked up at him, surprised. Things had definitely changed between us. It was the first time he had not only offered me a drink, but also remembered that I took tea while I was working. "Thank you. That would be lovely."

He returned about ten minutes later, bearing a tray of drinks and food. After setting it down on the coffee table, he went back and again closed and locked the door. No one ever disturbed us, but it was still a good habit to get into. I closed the laptop and put it aside as he passed me my drink first.

"I hope the tea is alright. I read once that proper English Tea must be seeped for exactly three minutes, but I got distracted by the sandwiches, and may have left it a little longer."

I took a sip, then smiled. "It's perfect." My smile turned to a grin. "It definitely tastes sweeter when you bring it to me."

Biting his lip, he grinned back at me, then reached for the plates. "There is a new kind of sandwich in the delivery today. Bean and... I don't know the English, but the literal translation is sweet potato?"

"That's what we call it, too."

"Would you like to trade half for half of my avocado and hummus sandwich?" he offered. His face was so solicitous that I almost burst out laughing. I couldn't quite tell if this was sweet, that he was actually willing to share his carefully protected sandwich with me, or if he was being opportunistic at the idea that I might have something nicer than him, but his face turned sour as he thought I was laughing at him. "What? What is it?"

"I will happily swap you. Thank you for offering," I told him, as he exchanged the food. "It's just funny, because I was told, the first day I was hired, that the only sacking offence in this place was to eat Herr Hütter's avocado sandwich."

"I'm not that bad," he laughed softly.

"Yes you are."

"Well, perhaps." But then he nudged me with his toe. "I must really like you if I'm sharing my special sandwich with you, then."

As we laughed together, I thought of my first day at Klingklang, being told to leave his sandwich alone, and the thought led me back to Gudrun and her strange warning about my phone. I knew that I should somehow tell Ralf, ask him to change my phone off his family plan and onto the company plan. But then I realised that asking this would mean having to tell him how I knew, and I couldn't think of a way to tell him that, without risking letting him know that Gudrun had guessed about us. Shut away in his office, with the rest of the world on the other side of a firmly locked door, I just didn't want to admit other people to our tete a tete just yet, and so I remained quiet on the subject. I would be more discreet myself, that was all it took. I would turn my phone off when I was with him, as after all, he was the only person that ever tried to contact me on it. It would be fine. Really it would.


	4. Dirty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Ralf and Katrin slip away from Klingklang for a dirty weekend, Katrin finds herself trying to prove to him - or herself - that she will do things his wife will not do.

A week went by, and we fell into a pattern. I would arrive at Klingklang first. If Müller was around, I would have tea and wait in the kitchen with her; if she was not, I would wait up in my little office. Ralf would arrive at the studio, do his usual rounds, then announce he was going upstairs to shower. After a discreet period of time, I would follow, and find him waiting for me. I would lock the door - I was so paranoid that I would always close it, lock it, then test it with a little shake - then we would fall into each other's arms.

I didn't think it was possible to go on being so happy for such a prolonged period of time. I kept waiting for something to spoil it, for a calamity to strike, or for the bubble to burst. I kept half expecting Ralf to grow tired of the liaison, and tell me he wanted to end it, but every time we saw each other afresh, his face lit up in a smile that left no doubt that his feelings for me were unchanged. His desire did not cool; in fact it only seemed to deepen, as we spent more time locked in that room, writing together.

I had never had sex on such a regular basis before in my life. When I was dating, I had never seen anyone more than once, maybe twice a week. And the few long-term cohabiting relationships I'd had had seemed to cool quickly to once a week, ritualistic Sunday morning rituals. The three, sometimes even four times a week that Ralf liked to enter me felt decadent, maybe even excessive. Could we possibly continue at this rate? The first couple of times, we coupled quickly, almost in a frenzy, as if scared that someone would burst through the door and interrupt us at any moment.

But in the weeks to come, sex developed its own moods. Sometimes it was long and leisurely, sometimes it was playful, sometimes it was almost perfunctory, just something we knew we had to do before we settled down to work, and sometimes it was actually a creative lubricant to pull us out of distant or distracted moods, and focus us on the task at hand. We became as one person when we fucked, and we needed to function as one mind, when we wrote. I soon discovered that it wasn't even a case of being 'in the mood'; it took on its own momentum. I would arrive in the office, lock the door, and then start to disrobe without even being asked.

The arrival of my period, though they had become very light from The Pill, was a slight wrinkle in our plans. Though Ralf insisted he didn't mind, I did not want to risk marking the sofa - blood and leather, I knew, was a very bad combination. So instead, I pushed him back on the sofa and knelt down at his feet, pushing his knees apart as I tugged at his belt. His head lolled back, a smile dusting his lips, as he realised what I intended to do.

Really, it was the first chance I'd ever had to really examine him, up close and in detail, getting to know every fold and wrinkle of his foreskin, every vein of his cock. He did not have a lot of hair. His calves I knew were waxed once a month, for cycling, but even his thighs were only lightly dusted with light brown hairs, which thickened slightly just at his groin. Nestled amidst the hair were dark brown moles. Those, I had come to see as lovely little surprises, hidden about his body. When I was done examining him with my fingertips, I followed with my lips, and then my tongue, sucking him into my mouth as he grew swollen. His breaths grew shallow as he tangled his fingers in my hair, holding me against him as I swallowed him deeper and deeper.

We lay afterwards on the sofa together, not working, not even talking, just staring into one another's eyes. His eyelids started to flutter, and he even fell asleep for a while. While sleeping, he looked somehow both much older and yet also incredibly boyish, all at the same time. The lines on his face relaxed, and his expression grew less severe, yet as his mouth slackened, I could see how puckered his lips were, how crepey his skin was. The bones of his face were heightened, those impossible cheekbones, the severe jaw, that formidable brow, and yet the muscle tone beneath had faded, leaving hollows and recesses where he had once been cherubic. And yet, to me, he still looked beautiful. How was it that emotion, that affection for the owner of a face could restore the damage done by the wreck of age? I looked at Ralf, and I didn't see an old man; I saw only my lover.

Leaving him to sleep, I sat down on the floor beside him, picked up my laptop and started to write. Was I losing my critical function in the same way? Was the biography turning into more and more of a hagiography as I fell deeper in love with its subject? But I wasn't paid to be a critical biographer. I was paid to be Ralf. Even though he was asleep, we had spent the previous weeks in such close contact that I felt almost as if he were still there, leaning over my shoulder to correct a word he felt didn't fit, and to cut my sentences down to size. He hated my long, elegant, run-on sentences. He preferred short, minimal, to the point sentences. I usually told him that wasn't how he talked. He talked like a German, piling clauses and sub-clauses and dependent phrases all on top of one another, with the verb, and the point all the way at the very end. And he would laugh and tell me that I was supposed to curtail his worst impulses, make him a better writer.

But that was the thing with Ralf. Ralf was always self-critical. A hagiography was never the autobiography that Ralf would have written. He didn't want it to be warts and all, especially when it came to his emotional life, but he did want it to show a sense of reflection and self awareness of his faults, as well as his strengths. But was I losing the ability to even see his faults, now that I was so deep in love?

Behind me, he stirred on the sofa. "Oh, Katrin, you must not let me sleep like that. If I nap during the daytime, I will not sleep at night, and then there will be trouble."

"I'm sorry," I said. "But you looked so peaceful." Honestly, I had perhaps been more than a little afraid to wake him. I had lost my pop star awe of Ralf a long time ago; but the relationship was still fresh and new enough for me not to want to rock the boat.

As he finished rubbing his eyes and sat up, I handed the laptop up to him, and he read. This was the period of his life that I thought would be the most difficult - the lawsuit with his former band member - but he approached it with equanimity, maybe even relish. My words perhaps had proved prophetic. There were indeed things he wanted to set the record straight on, though we edited and sanded and honed the anger and the rough emotions away until Ralf sounded as reasonable as I could make him. I knew that I could write Ralf's voice to make him sound sympathetic, but the trick was getting the balance right, between making his anger seem justified, and satisfying the sense that many fans, myself included, had deeply treasured those unique personal glimpses that the odious Flür had offered. We all knew Wolfgang was an unreliable narrator. And yet still, the sense of Ralf as a human being, as an emotional, lonely, sensitive human being with needs and urges of a more sentimental kind, it was something that we had been grateful for.

But those years were not the years that Ralf avoided talking about. It was that missing chunk, between 1993 and about 1997, that he carefully deflected me around every time I tried to point out the hole in the manuscript. I had already guessed why. That was the time when he had met Jutta. I also knew it was around the time of his near-fatal heart attack. Knowing that she had been working as a nurse when they met, I wondered if the two events had been related. But although Ralf never flatly refused to talk about it, he would always turn evasive, and slide off the questions, changing the subject, or saying that we would come back to it later.

Taping our conversations had become strange. I still did one interview a week, pushing on towards the end of the book. But there was no question of sitting discreetly on either side of the desk any more. I would place the recording device on the coffee table, as usual, but as we sat on the sofa, we would inevitably drift together, arms and legs entwining from habit as much as desire. When I listened back to them, transcribing them in my bedroom on the Berger Allee, I was struck by the whispers, the endearments. Hearing his soft voice so close in my ear was already distinctly erotic, but with the added moments of 'come closer, my love' and 'your skin is so soft' I felt like he was almost there in the room with me. Of course I did not transcribe the endearments (and really, I knew I should actually erase the memory cards) but sometimes on nights he was too busy to text, I found myself listening to them over and over.

Sundays were the strangest days, as when the weather was clear, Team Radsportgruppe Klingklang carried on with our cycling trips out into the countryside. Ralf joined us for these, but it was funny to see him torn between his desire to race competitively with his colleagues, and his desire to fall back and ride with me. Müller was quick, and was usually right up at the front, but I hung back riding a bit more sedately. At our gathering at the end, though, he always found a way to contrive to sit next to me. Although we were very careful never to touch one another, I was terrified that our colleagues might notice that the way we looked at one another and spoke to one another had changed. I always felt like the air had become electrically charged whenever Ralf was near; my body angled towards him as if drawn by a magnet. I was so sensitive to even just the sound of his voice that I had trouble believing that no one else had observed the effect he had on me.

Günter was the only one bold enough - or who had known Ralf long enough - to comment, joking lightly one time we withdrew to a corner >>Come on, you spend all day every day holed up in your office with the lady. What can you possibly have left to say to her?<<

Ralf went slightly red in the face and fell very silent, but I decided to just toss a joke back. >>And you have been married to Gudrun for nearly 20 years, but you two always seem to manage to take your lunch break at the same time. What can you possibly have left to say to her?<<

The whole group erupted into laughter, as the pair's cosy lunchbreaks were a long-established tradition, and the conversation moved on to Klingklang lunch practices. There were jokes back and forth, good-natured ribbing about who made the smelliest food, whether it was Falk's pickled herring on toast or Rudi's jalfrezi that had once set the fire alarms off. But for the rest of the evening, I caught Günter looking at me silently, and I wondered what, if anything, Gudrun might have passed on. It didn't even dawn on me until that night, lying awake in the dark, watching the lights blink on the top of the Mannesmann Hochhaus, that my comparing Ralf's interest in me, to Günter's intimacy with his wife, might have been exactly the confirmation that he had been looking for.

I was becoming slightly paranoid, at Klingklang. I had taken to hiding the memory cards with our interviews on them, storing them at home, rather than at work with the others. My phone, I had become almost fanatically private about, installing both a fingerprint key and a passcode to access the messenger. Ralf's texts never tipped over into the overtly erotic, but they were quite obviously romantic in tone. We made sure never to discuss any plans in writing; every meeting was arranged in person or over the phone.

And yes, he had kept his word. We found ways to be together. He planned another trip to "Brussels". In reality I left my phone at the Berger Allee and took a train out to a remote village out near Aachen, where Ralf picked me up at the station and drove me out to a discreet holiday camp that would accept cash in exchange for a small A-frame cabin on the edge of the Eifel Wald.

When we arrived, we discovered that it was freezing cold, and the only source of heat was a small wood-burning stove, though there was a stack of wood piled up high beside the chimney, and even more, stacked up outside under the eaves. It was so cold I didn't dare take off my coat and hat, let alone my clothes, as Ralf fiddled with the stove and tried to get a fire going. Finally, after he tried several times unsuccessfully to get it lit, I shooed him out of the way and told him that the hearth required a woman's touch. Looking at his pile of wood, I saw that he hadn't provided so much as a stick of kindling, and set about remaking the fire, stacking up newspaper and kindling underneath, and putting a triangle of large logs on top, as he explored the rest of the cabin.

The cabin was a fairly rugged affair, with an open seating area around the stove, and a smaller kitchen area behind, with a tiny, freezing cold bathroom out the back. A ladder lead to another floor above, so Ralf sat down and removed his hiking boots before climbing up.

I could hear him shuffling around upstairs, as I sat back on my heels and watched the fire start to take hold. "Come, Katrin," he called down from upstairs. "There is a sleeping platform up here, and my goodness, you should see the bed."

"Don't tell me; there's a bear-skin rug," I teased, feeding a few more pieces of kindling into the flames, and watching the blaze take hold.

"Yes, there is some kind of fur rug, and I'm a little afraid of it. I don't know what kind of animal it came from..." But then there was a little snort of embarrassed laughter.

"What is it?" Leaning forward, I blew on the bottom of the fire, and watched glowing embers shine in the base of the large chunks of wood. The fire had definitely taken hold now, so I chucked on another log, and closed the grate.

"Ahm..." He cleared his throat, a sharp noise that often functioned as an indication he could not think what to say. "It's hard to say. I do not know the English word." Another slightly embarrassed chuckle followed, so that I was compelled to pull off my own boots and follow him upstairs.

I found him staring at a small basket that had been left on a small table by the side of the bed. I sat down on the shaggy fur coverlet, and started to dig through it. Inside, to his great mortification, were a selection of condoms, brightly coloured and advertising various flavours, as well as little foil sachets of 'Massage-Öl' and what I could only assume was some kind of lubricating gel. "What did you tell them when you booked?" I laughed, picking one up and sniffing it, but it was impossible to tell what flavour it was supposed to be until the foil was broken.

"I did not tell them anything. I just asked if they would accept cash, and if the location was private," Ralf insisted, his face slowly turning a bright red.

"And from this, they assumed you wished to have a dirty weekend... well, they're not wrong, are they," I laughed, pulling out another sachet with a small picture of a rather improbably endowed lady. "What does this mean?" I giggled, stumbling over a rather different class of German than I was used to.

"It is, erm... lubrication gel. For, erm... well, for love-making," stuttered Ralf, mopping at his forehead. The small stove was starting to give off a powerful warmth, but I didn't think that was what was causing his discomfort.

"What does this bit say?" I wondered aloud, picking up another packet, depicting a rather buff moustachioed man on the front. and Ralf started to sputter.

"Never mind. It is dirty." He was getting more and more flustered, in a way I found rather endearing, so I pushed on, goading him slightly.

"Water soluble... suitable for... I don't understand the next bit." I grinned up at him, feeling more than slightly aroused, as much by his flustered adorableness, as the presence of these sex toys.

"Suitable for anal play," Ralf finally managed to eject.

"Anal play," I laughed, and grinned up at him salaciously. "That is a bit dirty. Do you fancy some anal play this weekend, then?"

"Katrin!" he yelped.

"Is that a yes or a no?" As the stove was starting to warm up a bit, I shrugged off my coat and lay back on the bed.

Ralf seemed genuinely flustered. "Es ist Verboten!"

"Verboten by whom?"

At that, Ralf grew even more flustered, hemming and hawing and unable to meet my eye, even as I reached out and seized him by the belt, pulling him towards the bed. As I started to undo his belt, pulling out his shirttails and starting to undress him, he seemed to dither back and forth, as if wanting to tell me something, and yet afraid to. Finally, as I uncovered his belly and started to gently kiss him around his navel, he confessed. "My wife does not like it. She will not do it; she says it is dirty."

I pulled away from his belly and smirked up at him. He almost never mentioned his wife any more, and certainly not when we were together. In an odd way, I felt like I had been issued a challenge. "Well, I'm not your wife, am I?"

"No," breathed Ralf, almost trembling with desire as I pushed my tongue into his navel. "No, you are most certainly not." He paused, licking his lips nervously. "Would you...? Do you like to...? You know... do it in that fashion?"

I stared at him, feeling suddenly very bold, wanting to make a point, wanting to prove myself somehow different, maybe even better than his wife. "Ralf... I want to do _everything_ with you."

"Everything?" He flushed slightly. "Katrin, I am an old man. I am set in my ways... erotic ways, as in other things. I worry, that I can... That I can perform for you. That I can satisfy a lover like you."

"Oh Ralf," I sighed deeply, worrying that I might have frightened him a little, when I only meant to excite him. "Don't worry... I just want you to relax and enjoy yourself." Pulling him towards me, I ran my hands up the back of his shirt. "You're all tense now," I observed. "Please relax? Why don't you lie down on our furry friend here, and I'll give you a back rub? There's all kinds of flavours of oil here..."

Ralf's face hovered somewhere between nervous and excited as a little boy as he shed his undershirt. "OK. That sounds nice. Strawberry, if we have some, please..." He spread himself out on the fur rug, and looked up at me hopefully.

"Erdbeeren, it is," I laughed, and straddled his back, squeezing the oil into my hands and rubbing it to warm it, before going to work. Slowly, Ralf started to relax, melting under my hands. I could feel his muscles untense, and his breaths go deeper, almost purring like a cat as I worked at knots in his muscles. The stove had really warmed the air, and as darkness fell outside, it felt like we were all curled up, safe away from the world. Finally, he seemed to be growing slightly frisky, grinding his hips into the mattress as I reached lower and lower down, squeezing the powerful muscles of his buttocks. Kissing him gently on the small of his back, I pulled his trousers off. "Are you warm enough?"

"Yes, perfectly," he purred.

"Let me just go and throw a couple more logs on the fire..."

"There is also a bottle of wine in the top of my suitcase," he told me. "I thought we might share it when we... Well. You can bring it up now, if you like."

I tip-toed down the ladder, to find that the fire was burning nicely, so I poked it with the tongs, then shifted a couple of fresh logs onto it. I found the bottle of wine in Ralf's suitcase, and dug through the kitchen until I found a corkscrew and two glasses, then carried all of it upstairs.

In my absence, Ralf had turned over, and shed the rest of his clothes, lying splayed across the bed, nude except for his socks, with his erection starting to rise towards me. "What a nice surprise!" I laughed, then poured the wine. We toasted each other, I drank deeply, then I bent down, to finish raising his erection with my mouth. I sucked, I slurped. He seemed to like it when I was noisy, responding with his own wordless vocalisations when I sucked his 'eggs' into my mouth, squeezing them ever so tightly before releasing them.

More wine. We were growing quite merry, and the room was very warm, our skin growing slick. He pulled me towards him, kissed my breasts and wanted me to ride him, so I clambered on. We were laughing and sweaty, and he kept pulling at my nipples with his teeth, and somehow another sachet of flavoured gel got opened, and everything tasted of coconut. Changing position, we rolled over, and went at it from another angle, though this didn't work so well. When he was drinking, he sometimes lost his erection, so I rolled back over and sucked at him until he was firm again.

"You keep drinking," he told me. "I'll stay sober, and then I'll stay firm." And then we were rolling around again, laughing and slipping against the coconut flavoured gel. I was menacing him with the lube 'for anal play' but his eyes lit up, and suddenly he changed his mind, and appeared willing to try it. "If you're sure it won't hurt you," he insisted, but his face was flushed and he was very playful when he was aroused.

"No," I assured him. "It's kind of nice once in a while, if you use a lot of lubrication... put on a condom, though, because it makes an awful mess."

"What colour?" He was digging through the basket of toys eagerly, as if he had never been afraid of it.

"Blue." Turning around, I helped him roll the condom on, pinching the tip as he rolled it down his shaft, watching his cock turn azure blue. As he opened the next sachet, we both bent down to sniff, then laughed. "Lemons. It smells of lemons." I rubbed it all over his azure cock, and he shivered, thrusting into my hand like he wanted to fuck all of me. "Put some on me," I directed, squeezing the rest into his hand.

I moved forward, and knelt with my bum in the air, spreading my cheeks and waiting for him as he searched with the tip of his finger. "I'm afraid I'm going to hurt you," he sighed, then knelt down carefully behind me. "I'm just going to stay here. You come, and guide yourself back onto me." Laughing, fumbling, tense, it took a couple of attempts. I tried to relax, then took a great gulp of wine, then pushed myself back onto him and engulfed him. Ralf whimpered, then let out a small cry.

"Are you alright?" I asked.

"It is so tight," he gasped. "Even tighter than your Muschi. I feel like I am going to explode..."

"Just move a little bit... yes, that's it..." I relaxed and let him enter further inside me, gripping him with firm muscles, as he let out his breath in a hiss. Slowly, I started to move up and down, expelling him carefully, then pulling him back in. He reached for me blindly, his hands going for my breasts as I concentrated on long, slow strokes. It wasn't uncomfortable, it just felt a bit odd. It was almost a different kind of pleasure, an atavistic infant pleasure, squeezing him in and out.

"Stop, stop," he cried.

"Am I hurting you?"

"No, but if you don't stop, I'm going to come, right now."

"Don't you want to come?"

"Not right now. I want to make love to you for some time yet... Just hold me like this. No, don't squeeze, just hold me, it feels so good... I can feel your heartbeat, even through this bastard condom..." Reaching forward, he pushed his fingers into the crevice between my thighs, and started to work, thrusting and twisting, pressing and manipulating me from every side, until I couldn't help but move, rocking back against him. "You come first," he breathed in my ear.

"No, you," I laughed, and squeezed his cock with all my might. We started to try to race one another to orgasm. I lost track of who was where. His fingers were still up inside me, and as he mashed the heel of his hand against my pubis, I felt myself start to come, the orgasm rippling up inside me. He waited for the long, hissed release of breath that meant I had come, then started to pump, very hard, at my back. That was not so comfortable, without the anaesthetising white heat of arousal. I clenched, I unclenched, I let myself go limp, then finally I just squeezed. His breaths went all shallow, that odd panting, a moment of silence, and then that long deep sigh. Then we fell back against the mattress, and just held one another as our heartbeats returned to normal again.

He kissed my shoulder, then looked down. "This is a mess," he said.

"Yes, I know. Hence the condom. Hang on..." I reached down to the floor and found one of the empty foil wrappers. "Put it in here."

"There are tissues on my night table. Wait a minute." Somehow, between the two of us, we managed to dispose of the thing. "What a disgusting thing. We should throw it on the fire."

"I'll go down," I offered. "After that, well... Well, I need the loo."

"I'm not surprised." Released from his clinch, I turned to face him. He looked deep into my eyes, and showered my face with kisses, making me giggle. Then, abruptly, he grew rather serious. "Katrin..." I looked at him, startled. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For making me feel... Well. I suppose you make me feel young again, in a way." He smiled wistfully. "You indulge me."

"Ralf," I said, quite low but quite earnest. "I do enjoy sex, too, you know. And I especially enjoy sex with you."

He laughed, and kissed my nose, but then smiled. "I know you do. That, I suppose, is another thing I thank you for."

I slipped out of his arms, and climbed back down the ladder. Opening the grate of the stove, I threw the wadded ball of tissue paper and condom onto the fire, hoping it wouldn't smell bad as it burned. For a few minutes, I bathed in the heat of the fire, then I had to heed the call of my bowels, and padded back to the freezing cold bathroom to sort myself out. 

The bathroom had a mirror in an awfully awkward place, so as I sat on the loo, I stared at my naked body. An odd crop of bruises and red marks were already starting to come up on my hips and my thighs which made me feel slightly self-conscious about our uninhibited lovemaking, but then I wondered if I would ever feel like this body was good enough for Ralf. He enjoyed sex with me, of that I was certain. He didn't even have to thank me; I just knew from the way that he writhed and shuddered inside me that his pleasure was genuine. But I hated being confronted with the fact of my own body, the pillows of fat, the skin that bruised too easily.

But when I emerged from the bathroom, I found that he had climbed down from the sleeping platform, and was standing in front of the fire, the terrible fur rug still wrapped around his shoulders, though he was naked from the waist down, his organ, semi-limp, glistening in the firelight below his prominent belly. But his face lit up when he saw me, as I saw his eyes slide up and down my body. There was no disapproval or disappointment in his face now, just the slight curl of his lip upwards in pleasure. "My angel reappears," he teased.

"An angel with goosebumps?" I laughed.

"Come here and let me warm you." He put his arms around me, and we stood in front of the fire embracing for a few minutes, until my stomach, embarrassingly, grumbled. "Oh," he said, as if his memory were jogged. "I did bring food... there is a packed supper from the supermarket in the car."

"One of us will have to get dressed, and go out and get it," I laughed.

"You stay here," he told me, kissing my bare shoulder. "I like watching you, undressed."

"But I don't look particularly good naked," I chuckled, a little apologetically.

"You do." Ralf frowned, considering this carefully. To my disbelieving glance, he explained. "Your body _feels_ so good, to be holding, to be inside. So to look at your body, this reminds me of the pleasure I experience when I touch your body. Which makes _looking_ itself highly pleasurable."

I looked at him, and was tempted to burst out laughing. But as he stood there, this short, solid, barrel-bellied little man, he looked so serious and thoughtful that I just went over and deposited a kiss on his aggressively pointed nose.

In a funny gender role reversal, I fed the fire and manhandled the logs with the tongs, as he took the food to the kitchen and prepared our meal. Stretched out on the fur rug in front of the fire, we ate our supper, licking the cream from little tarts off one another's fingers, then dozed in the warmth. After some time, our bodies started to slip together again, his fingers absent-mindedly playing between my legs as we stared thoughtfully into the flames.

Wriggling around in his arms, I turned my back to the fire, and started to kiss his neck, his shoulders, gently sucking the lobes of his ears. When I could feel his response between my loins, I reached up to whisper to him. "Do you want me to go upstairs, and fetch the cherry gel, for more of the old..." I lowered my voice to seductively pronounce the unfamiliar German word for anal play, but he frowned at me.

"Do you want to?" he asked, looking a little worried.

"I don't mind... I was asking if you wanted to," I repeated, perhaps a little defensively.

Ralf looked down at me carefully, as if trying to scan my face for something. "You don't mind something is not the same as you wanting to do something. Do you really want to do it?"

"I want to make you happy," I told him, catching his cock between my thighs and squeezing gently, as a suggestion of pleasures to come, but he reached across and cupped my face carefully in his hands.

"All of it makes me happy. Just being with you makes me happy. I... I..." He stuttered, as if trying to find the right words. "I don't know how to say this prettily, so I'm just going to say it. I don't want you doing things you don't enjoy, because you think it makes me happy. This is not what I enjoy. Katrin, I was a young man in the 70s, the age of permissiveness. I have been on tour, in the States, when debauchery was very fashionable. Debauchery for the sake of debauchery is... it is not for me. Please... do not feel that you have to do these wild things for my benefit. If you want to... of course. But not for me."

"What makes you think I don't enjoy it?" I said, a little nervously, a little defiantly, trying very hard to feel like I didn't have to prove anything to him, though perhaps, really, I wanted to prove to myself that I was _more adventurous in bed_ than his wife.

"You did not _move_ the same way you normally move, when I'm inside you," he said softly, before quietly adding. "I love the way you move against me. It turns me on."

"Alright," I said, shrugging as if it were all the same to me. "We do it the way you want to."

"Turn around," he breathed in my ear. "I want to watch the reflection of your body in the glass as you come. Spread your legs, show me... yes, you know I like to look at you as we do this."

As he entered me, I just felt warm, and sleepy, and deeply loved, one of his arms tight across my stomach, the other playing over my breasts, clutching me close to him. I still found it amazing, how many different moods there could be to sex: urgent, playful, calm, sleepily indulgent, as the mood took us.


	5. Graciella

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ralf and Katrin squeeze the last drops of pleasure from their dirty weekend in the Wald. But when Müller's new girlfriend comes to visit her in Düsseldorf, Katrin starts to feel that there is something important missing from her relationship with Ralf.

We fell asleep in front of the fire, on that ridiculous fur rug. I had come, three or four times already, but Ralf seemed to want to go on gently thrusting into me forever. But oh! It was wonderful to fall asleep with my lover's arms wrapped around me, and wake with my nose pressed against his chest. It was midnight, and the moon had risen outside, sending a silvery light across the forest, so close outside the huge dark windows in whose reflection we had watched ourselves copulate. The fire had gone down from lack of attention, and the room was distinctly chilly, so I sat up, put some more logs on, and banked it for the night, as he went upstairs to warm the bed.

The next morning, waking with the sun, I looked out through the windows at an expanse of forest that nearly took my breath away. I made coffee, and we drank it, just sitting together with the unruly fur rug around our shoulders, staring out into the trees, before falling back into our little love-nest. A beautiful man and a beautiful setting, yes, this was better than those stolen moments in the dark office at Klingklang. So we made the most we could of that snatched morning amidst the trees, fucking until our nerves were rubbed numb, and we had run out of little packages of massage oil and lubricating gel.

We gave back the keys just before noon, then found a place to buy a packed lunch, splitting sandwiches and waterbottles between us. Ralf parked the car at a marked trail head, and got out, standing before a carved wooden map, as I gathered our things together for the walk. Even just looking at him - the way he stood, the customary slant of his shoulders, the way he pushed his hips forwards, hands in his back pockets, his pointed chin thrust into the air as he tilted his head up to read something - I loved everything about him. So I walked over to him, put my arms around his waist from behind, laid my face against his shoulders, and just pressed my whole body into hugging him. He put his hand over mine and squeezed back gently; yes, he loved me too. And we stood like that for a few minutes, before we wandered off into the forest.

It was a beautiful, clear day, and the sun was shining down through the tops of some enormously tall species of conifer. Everything felt very clean and bright and crisp, and the further we walked, the more our lungs were filled with the scent of pine trees. 

"There," he said triumphantly, pointing to an enormously old and twisted yew, marking the start of a path. "That is my favourite kind of tree. Elbe."

"Yew," I corrected.

"Me? I what?" 

"Yew. Y - E - W," I started to correct, but Ralf grinned at me and took my hand, swinging my arm as we walked. I suddenly looked at him, realising this was another of those things we never got to do, just walk hand in hand like an ordinary couple. For miles, after we walked through a dark tunnel of yew trees into the proper wilderness, we were alone, our breaths visible in the frosty air, walking fast so we did not get too cold. Once, a dog appeared from a path at the side, and crossed the trail, followed a minute and a half later by a jogger, too caught up in their exercise to notice us, but other than that, we saw not a living creature. The animals must have been hibernating; the birds must have migrated somewhere warmer. The forest was oddly still, as if enchanted.

So when something called just above our heads, I was spooked, and dropped his hand. But Ralf laughed as there was a rustle between the trees. "It's only a bird," he said, shielding his eyes to look up into the sun.

True to his word, a huge black creature dropped out of the sky, and landed about a dozen feet in front of us, a corvid of some kind, a rook or a crow. I almost held my breath as it scrabbled around in the leaf litter, as if looking for something. "It's a shame there's only one," I said, as I dug in my pocket and found my sandwich. Pulling off a crust, I threw it to the bird, who eyed me carefully with glittering black eyes before deciding if it was safe to eat.

"Why?" asked Ralf.

"One for sorrow, two for joy. Do you not have that song in Germany?"

"Wait, but look..." warned Ralf, as the tree above us shook. Attracted by the food, another, even larger bird dropped down before us. Ralf dug in his own pocket, and produced his own sandwich, tossing a small piece of it to this marvellous glossy blue-purple-black bird. "Two for joy. A good omen, don't you think?"

There was a brief squabble between the two birds as the smaller tried to grab a bit of bread from the larger, but the bigger bird fought off the interloper easily. Feeling sorry for the smaller one, I dug in my pocket again and tossed another morsel of bread. The smaller bird grabbed it and flew off, followed quickly by its partner. Both of us laughed, but as we reached the patch of ground where they had been, Ralf bent down, distracted by something.

"Look at this," he whistled, and produced a long, glittering, blue-black feather. "Do you want to put it in your hat? Ravens are lucky for the English, aren't they? You keep them in that castle in London?"

I took the feather and carefully tucked it into my woolly hat. "There's a funny story about the ravens at the Tower. You know the legend, that so long as they are there, Britain will never fall? Well, the irony is, they are there as an emblem of the Celtic god Bran - Bran still means Raven in Cornish - who is supposed to protect them. But it was King Arthur who let the ravens die. And after he did so, it was your lot that invaded."

"My lot?" Ralf looked slightly offended at the suggestion. "Germany did not succeed in invading England. You invaded us, instead. We were occupied by you for decades."

"The Anglo-Saxons," I protested. "They were Germans and Danes, not British. My lot were the British. The Anglo-Saxons were your lot."

"I thought they intermarried," teased Ralf, taking my hand and kissing it softly. "German men, British women, I could see how they would be attracted."

"I could see how they would fight," I laughed.

"But we never fight," pointed out Ralf, and I realised he was right. We might playfully squabble, debate and even argue, but we never actually fought. Tugging me by the hand, he pulled me down a steeper slope towards a small brook. And there, on top of a small shelter, sat the two ravens, playfully cawing at one another. "Let's eat our lunch there, by the bach. That is, if the ravens don't steal it from us. Then, I think we should turn and walk back to the car. We need to be back before nightfall."

Without the heat of movement, it was cold, so we ate our lunch quickly, though Ralf smirked at me as he finished his banana.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Ah," he said, smiling wistfully. "If I were a younger man, I would pull you onto my lap, and have my wicked way with you, here in this beautiful spot."

"And what way would that be?" I teased.

"Ah, you know."

"You mean, steal the last of my sandwich... or bounce me up and down on the end of your cock for twenty minutes?" I laughed, wickedly enjoying the blush and the furtive smile that filth provoked in Ralf.

"Perhaps. But I am old, and it is too cold."

I laughed and placed my hand softly on the familiar mound in his trousers, hardly believing that he could have risen again. "I don't think you are too old, at all."

He smiled, looking somehow both perplexed and excited as his organ continued to swell under my hand. "Good god, you are like viagra for my old body. How can you be so insatiable as to want it again?" he teased.

A witty riposte formed on my tongue, but I bit it back, tossed by an impulsive whim. Gently lowering myself to my knees, I carefully unzipped him, and took him in my mouth, sucking until I swallowed him. I wanted it all. I wanted every last drop of his cum. I wanted to send him back to his wife that evening, completely dry and unable to function, because I had already sated him in every way.

 

\----------

 

Ralf's words in the forest were true; we didn't fight. The only thing we ever argued about was the book. And even these arguments were remarkably gentle, more like debates where we tried to calmly out-rational one another. Over the next week, as we had reached the 21st Century, we started to debate where we would end the book. Ralf wanted to end with the release of the Katalog box set. This, I knew, was because he did not want to have to address the departure of Florian. I didn't accept that as a good place to end; it felt incomplete. I was pushing him to write about Florian's departure, and end the book with the shows at MoMA and The Tate, but also Kraftwerk's lifetime achievement Grammy; acceptance into the Canon in a different sense. It was a circular path. They had started with a gig at the tiny, local Kunsthalle, and ended with retrospectives at the world's premier modern art museums, sealing their reputation as true artists.

"You want me to write about Florian because you are still nursing a crush on Flori," he insisted, and I caught the sense that he was only half teasing.

Picking up my phone, I showed him the wallpaper of the lock screen. I had swapped out the photo of Florian for a photo of the whole Klingklang gang at dinner, the first night of the Mexican tour. Gudrun had asked one of the waiters to take a snapshot, and she had forwarded it to everyone, but I had taken to it, as the first moment I had genuinely felt a part of Klingklang, rather than just feeling like Ralf's secretary. But really, there was another huge part of me that wanted a recent photo of Ralf, not the remote pop star, but my middle-aged lover, and this was the only way to do so without arousing anyone's suspicion. After all, Müller and Falk, my partners in crime on that tour, were larger in the photo than Ralf, lurking at the back with a sweet, paternal expression, surrounded by his family business.

He smiled when he saw it. "Well. It is a nice picture."

Although I worried about the small, hothouse gossip of that family business, it was Müller who was the subject of gossip for that season. The promised visit from Graciella was fast approaching, and she seemed to rather enjoy a strange process of fret-boasting, where she would pretend to be worried about some aspect of her upcoming visit, but really she just wanted to show off the elaborate plans she was making to entertain her 'friend'. (None of us were quite clear on the official status of the relationship, as she insisted on referring to Graciella as her 'Freundin', taking advantage of the ambiguity of the German word, rather than using a word that more specifically meant lover.) 

Graciella's flight was arriving on the Friday, but Müller was continually worrying about how much time to take off, for the following week. We were all so quizzy that we were half encouraging her to bring her into Klingklang for lunch one day, though it was well known that Ralf frowned upon casual visitors. 

>>Girlfriends are not allowed at Klingklang<< Fritz had had to remind her, as she almost started to consider it.

I had already arranged to meet them for dinner, and drinks at Müller's local on Saturday night. Saturday night, after all, was Ralf's family night, so I always made plans to be scarce rather than fret over texts that did not buzz. I tried very hard not to think about Ralf with his family. I did not ask if he still had sexual relations with his wife, knowing I had no right to be jealous. But the thought of another woman bending over his cock, it had started to make me feel awfully conflicted in a way that I didn't like to think about. It was just easier for me to think of Ralf in a sexless marriage, than to remember that I was actually the interloper. The month-old affair was already entrenched. I could no longer imagine life without Ralf. Now my sexuality had been awakened again, it would not go back to sleep again easily.

I arrived early at the bistro where I usually whiled away my Saturday nights with Müller and her friends, so I ordered an Altbier and set to chatting with the barmaid, Zara, who was forever trying to set me up with her mates. And so it was Zara who saw them first. >>God in heaven, this girl and Müller are holding hands.<< she gasped.

I turned slowly, and to my astonishment, it was true. Müller was grasping her lover tightly by the hand, nestling close to her as if she were a precious object to be guarded with her life. Graciella, it seemed, I had misremembered. She was not the tall, drunk, obnoxious girl with mounds of tawny hair who had thrown herself at Ralf; she was the small, dark-haired girl who had actually dragged her drunken friend off Ralf that first night in the discotheque. She was older than I had first thought, not a kid at all, but maybe in her late 20s or early 30s, elegant and sophisticated, with a slightly elfin face framed by the blunt fringe of a Cleopatra cut. She was nothing at all like I remembered her; but then again, I had noticed little else besides Ralf that night. And Müller looked absolutely astonished to have such an elegant creature resting lightly on her elbow like a butterfly.

>>Hey everybody. This is Graciella. Graciella, these are my friends... Kate you've met, and Zara's working tonight but she's cool, and Marta and Sascha will be over in a bit, no doubt. You remember Kate, right?<<

>>Good evening<< she said, smiling sweetly at me. I wasn't sure if I should shake the proffered hand or kiss it, but decided on the side of caution and shook.

>>You speak German<< I observed.

>>A little. I learn... for Flo.<<

>>Flo?<< I asked, shocked, looking back at Müller. >>Since when were you Flo? I thought even your own mother calls you Müller.<<

Müller shifted uncomfortably, draping her arm around Graciella's shoulder as they sat. >>Do I look to you like a Florienne? Anyway, we couldn't have two Flos at Klingklang. For a while, we tried Big Flo and Little Flo but Big Flo objected, and after he left, Ralf didn't like to be reminded, so I became Müller.<<

>>Slowly! Slowly, please<< said Graciella, as she nestled into Müller like a pair of doves. >>I learn still.<<

Müller looked so awkward that I changed the subject for her. >>How are you learning?<< I asked, at about half speed, realising that this was what I must have sounded like six months ago.

>>I do Duolingo. Very easy, on the Handy.<<

>>That's good, that's how I learned, too.<< I told her.

>>What is your... first speaking?<< It was actually quite adorable, how she reached for the wrong word, but I could understand exactly what she meant. I realised now, how gently Ralf had spent the past few months correcting me.

>>My first _language_ is English << I said, imitating Ralf, supplying the correct word ever so gently without drawing attention to it.

She warmed to me immediately. "You are English? I did a year at a high school in New York. You have to learn English, as gri... Americans just will not speak Spanish."

I had to laugh. "No kidding? I lived in New York for a few years. Whereabouts did you study?"

>>Hey, hey, slow down with the English<< protested Müller, squeezing her girlfriend affectionately. >>Now I can't keep up.<<

"Oh, I went to a private Catholic boarding school on the Upper West Side. It was very strict, but I used to try to sneak out to go out to Brooklyn to go clubbing...." laughed Graciella, then switched to halting German. >>I go to college in New York.<<

"Gymnasium, nicht Hochschul," I whispered, and all three of us started to laugh. "I made the same mistake all the time. The German education system is very weird."

We had a wonderful evening. Graciella, far from the star-struck groupie I'd first taken her for, was a lively, intelligent young woman; very arty, wanted to be a designer, though she was stuck freelancing for an ad agency. As her conversation flowed from fluent Spanish to perfect English to a mangled German she was swiftly gobbling up over the course of the evening, I realised she was very bright. The swiftness of her mind seemed to entice and delight the perpetually geeky Müller, as she juggled idioms and jokes across three languages at speed.

I had thought it would be awkward, translating back and forth between the three of us, but it was actually quite fun. Graciella had a love of wordplay that made me laugh, constantly, and Müller, already clearly smitten, seemed delighted to learn every tiny detail about her lover that I uncovered. Graciella had studied painting at university, and her favourite artists were the surrealists, Remedios Varo and Leonora Carrington. She liked electronic music, but she loved indie-rock best; she'd gone to high school in New York initially because she loved The Strokes and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, and had fallen in love with the thriving Williamsburg scene in the early 00s. She talked at length about the shoegaze scene in Mexico City, describing to Müller all the various effects pedals they used, and enquiring as to their workings, which Müller was more than happy to discuss. The pair of them were just so _into_ one another, it was delightful to witness.

Other friends stopped by our table for a drink, a dish of food, just to say hello, and marvel at Müller's devoted attitude. As often struck me at that bar, Müller's local, it felt like I had become part of something. These were my people.

We debated going out clubbing, and I demurred, as I wanted to be in reasonable shape for the ride the next afternoon, so I only stayed for another round, switching from drinking to an extravagant German pastry for desert. But as I watched Müller and Graciella, both clearly delighted with one another, and seemingly just as surprised as each another to have found this growing love, I felt something odd in my own heart.

Now, obviously, I was happy for my friend. Although I knew Müller loved to swagger and play the part of an international playgirl, the way she had told me many times that she thought she would never settle down, had often struck me as something she was actually a little sad over. At the heart of it lurked a fear that no one would ever put up with her and her spiky manners and unruly sexuality. So to see her so besotted with someone who was clearly just as deeply smitten, well, it did warm my heart. I wondered if the way that they looked at one another, if that was the way that Ralf and I appeared to observers.

Then it struck me. There were no observers, and there could never be. No one could even know of my liaison with Ralf, let alone witness it. And watching Müller's friends, as one after another, they joshed or congratulated her on her romantic good fortune, I felt a pang of jealousy. Graciella was already being treated like a _girlfriend_ , being invited along to social occasions, as one of Müller's DJ mates said she would put them on the guest list for Salon des Amateurs. Another wanted to know if they'd stop by for dinner, and Graciella offered to bring a special Mexican desert. A third friend pulled Graciella away for a round of Fussbol, at which she soon showed that she excelled, beating even Müller, who was the Klingklang champion. As prize, Graciella demanded, and received, a kiss so passionate that the entire bar burst into spontaneous applause, toasting the couple as if they were newlyweds.

And I selfishly thought to myself... Ralf and I love each other and desire each other just as much as these two do. And yet, our love will never be acknowledged, will never be accepted, will never be woven into a shared community the way that this pair's love is. The awkward sensation sharpened into a pang of loneliness, and I felt, suddenly, very cold, and very alone. For the first time, I actually felt awful about my relationship with Ralf. And it was not even guilt over his wife or his family, but an actual selfish sensation of loss and deprivation. I started to doubt whether it was actually worth it, this secret affair that could never be expressed publicly.

I felt oddly bereft as I cycled home, my heart aching with the feeling that I had lost something, though to be honest, it was more the realisation that I had never really had the thing in the first place. Although I didn't have much of a hangover the next morning, my head felt fuzzy and I felt heartsick as much as sick-sick, and I almost cancelled my ride with Radsportgruppe Klingklang, except for the memory that Müller would not be attending, and they needed me more than ever to make up the numbers.

Out on the ride, Ralf was in a fine mood, racing on ahead with Fritz and Günter, but I lagged further and further behind. My excuse was that the chain was catching on the gears, but to be honest, my heart just wasn't in it. Finally, I stopped, and pushed the bike to the side of the road to examine the derailleur, though really, all I wanted to do was cycle to the nearest tram stop and go home.

After about five minutes, the group must have realised that I had fallen behind, for Ralf appeared at the top of the hill, bombing down the road towards me. >>What's the matter?<< he called. >>Have you had a puncture?<<

>>No, the chain was just catching. Needs some oil, that's all.<< Although I shifted the bike back and forth to show how it was sticking, I made no move to climb back on.

Ralf smiled at me. >>Well, come on then<< he said reaching for his fanny pack. >>I've got some oil in here. Fix it up, quick. I know a short cut where we can catch them up...<< But then he noticed the glum expression on my face. >>What is is?<< He looked up and down the road to make sure that no one had followed him, before he stepped towards me with a slightly lascivious expression, putting one hand on each of my hips and pulling me towards him by my belt loops. >>You don't want to ride the cycle, do you. You want to ride another piece of fine German machinery, don't you, my devious little dose of viagra<< he teased, leaning forward to kiss me.

My body responded to the kiss but my mind was in turmoil. It lasted only about twenty seconds before I pushed him away. >>Don't; I'm covered in grease.<<

>>I don't mind a little cycling grease... Maybe it even excites me!<<

"Ralf!"

At that he stopped and actually looked at me, noting the sour set to my mouth. "What is it, Katrin. What is the matter? What do you want?" He asked in a genuinely solicitous tone, switching to English, as if he would actually move heaven and earth to make whatever I wished occur.

"I want... I want..." And then I realised I couldn't even express what I wanted. I wanted Ralf and I not just to be lovers, but to be a publicly acknowledged couple. I wanted to introduce him to my friends, show him off, make him a part of my life, have him woven into the fabric of my group of friends, the way that Müller and Graciella were doing. And that was the one thing I could never ask him. "I'm not in the mood for cycling. I'm going to go back to the tram. It isn't far."

"I will ride with you." If he was disappointed, he didn't show it. He hopped back on his bike, and cycled slowly beside me. It was only twenty minutes to the tram stop where we had all gathered, but my heart felt heavy as we approached, seeing his car exactly where he had left it earlier. "If you're not cycling, I'm not cycling. Come on, put your bike on the rack. We will drive somewhere private. A deserted lovers' lane, you and me in the back of a Mercedes. It sounds quite enticing, if you think about it."

I allowed myself to be convinced. Ralf drove deep up into the woods, along unpaved lanes he must have known from previous cycling expeditions, until I thought we were quite lost. But he found a lane, lined with thick yew hedges, quite remote from prying eyes. As I got out of the car, pulling the seat forward to make room in the back, I saw condom wrappers squashed into the grass at the side of the road. Clearly, we were not the first couple to have this idea.

Ralf climbed in beside me, and started to touch me, and soon we were kissing in earnest, our body heat misting up the car windows. I knew the doors were locked, but I was terrified that any minute now, there would be a tap on the window, and the police looking inside. But as he pushed his lycra cycling pants off his hips and pulled me up onto his lap, we were completely alone. I reached down to unclip the fabric that had been pinned back for cycling, then wiggled out of my trousers. Straddling him with my thighs, I moved closer and took him inside me, then started to move against him, trying to make up my sadness with another of those overpowering orgasms he had learned how to give me.

It was impossible to be unhappy, when we were fucking. The physical act, concentrating on his cock inside me, it obliterated all other thought. I forgot my sadness, I forgot that horrible tang of loneliness I had experienced, sitting in that bistro with Müller and Graciella and the whole gang. I just worked my thighs up and down, feeling him slide in and out of me like a well-oiled piston. The way he was looking at me, his eyes wide open, shining with wonder and with desire, it was enough. I knew that he loved me.

But abruptly, his phone started to bleat in the front seat. He sat bolt upright, and said "Katrin."

"I'm here..."

"No! That ringtone. It is my daughter. Something is wrong." Reaching past me, he picked up the phone as I awkwardly slid off him, feeling suddenly very exposed, half naked in the back of his car. The mood was broken, shattered like a glass dropped on a stone floor, as he flicked his Handy on. >>Liebling! Your Papa is here. What is it?<<


	6. Katrin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katrin, the journalist, has known all along that Ralf was a married father. But can she keep her cool, as his family life comes crashing abruptly into her life?

As I cast about the back of Ralf's car for my jeans, I could hear a stream of high-pitched German spilling from the other end of his phone.

>>Hang on, hang on. Your mother did what? Katrin, slow down.<<

I extracted my pants and pulled them on, then pulled my jeans over them. Had I even been wearing a coat? I thought I had had an anorak, but Ralf appeared to be sitting on it, so I dragged his leather jacket from the front seat, and wrapped it around my shoulders. Without the heat of sex to warm me, it was distinctly chilly.

>>Well, where are you now?<< A brief pause. >>But, what has happened to it?<< Another stream of rapid German. >>I see. Yes, tell me exactly, and I will write down the address.<< He snapped his fingers, casting about the car for a bit of paper, and I found a pen in the pocket of his jacket, which he used to write down an address. >>Yes, alright, I will come and get you. I don't see that I have much choice in the matter.<< A stream of words started back up, but he cut her off. >>Stay in the car, darling. That is not a good neighbourhood to go wandering about in. Just stay there, I will be there in fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. Tschüss!<<

"What is it, what's happened?" I asked, as Ralf awkwardly tried to redress, tucking his now flaccid cock back into his Lycra leggings.

"She has had an argument with her mother. She claims that her mother started it, but I do not believe her. Well, either way, she stormed out of the house, and has gone off with this boyfriend of hers. Except his car has broken down, and they are stranded in an industrial district outside Kempen. So Papa has to go and play hero, and rescue the unhappy pair." Sighing deeply, he looked about for his jacket, but came up with my anorak, putting that around his shoulders instead.

"I should go," I said guiltily. "Can you drop me at the tram - or at a train station?"

He shook his head slowly as we climbed back into the front seats. "Unfortunately, the train station in Kempen is on the other side from where we are going, and it really is not a good part of town that they are in. You will have to come with me to pick them up, and then I will drop you at the station."

I looked at him carefully as he started the car's engine, and deflected the heater onto the windscreen to clear the condensation, the results of our interrupted passion. "Is that wise?"

"You are my secretary, you are an employee of Klingklang, and we have all been on the cycle ride together. This is not at all unusual. Please look in the glove compartment down there?"

"You want a tissue to clear the windows?"

"Air freshener. My wife keeps it there, as she dislikes the smell of ponies. I think we may need it." As he put the car into gear, I sprayed it over the back seat, cracking my window slightly open. But just before he turned the car around, he threw me a slightly pleading look, and I realised that actually, he _wanted_ me there, maybe even as a kind of buffer between him and the rowing women in his life. "Katrin, is this normal? Did you and your mother argue this much? Because I cannot remember my mother and my sister ever fighting like this."

I actually laughed aloud. "Oh my god, Ralf, to be honest, we were much, much worse. We did not just throw words at one another, but sometimes heavy objects."

He reversed the car back down the lane and out into a country road, before going back in the opposite direction to that we had come. "But you were together at Christmas. Was it still that difficult?"

"Oh, no. We're fine, now."

Relief flashed across his face as he turned off the country road and back out into a main artery. "You mean there is hope for them yet."

"It took ten, maybe fifteen years for us to work things out, but yes. There is."

We drove in silence through the darkening afternoon, as Ralf asked me to find the street on the map. I wished I had my smartphone with me, as that would have made it easier to find, but my paranoia about being tracked had made me leave it at home. Instead, I had to look up the street in the heavy old Rhine-Ruhr map book, giving directions as we went. As we drove down the arterial road around the town, I spotted the road, a side-slip to an industrial complex, with a rather beaten-up VW van parked at an awkward angle at the side of it, looking suspiciously like it had been pushed there.

"That is the beast," said Ralf. "It gives my wife palpitations, but I look rather fondly on these old vehicles. They remind me of student days. They were very good for transporting band equipment around. One of our early percussionists had one. Klaus was his name. And he was just as temperamental as the vehicle!" He pulled in behind it, and tooted the horn. After quite a few minutes, two teenagers climbed out of it, and walked around to Ralf's side of the car.

My stomach lurched slightly at the thought of meeting Ralf's family, but there she was. Ralf's daughter. As if she could be anyone else. She had a strong look of him, that very pointed chin with a slight cleft, though her jaw was far less severe. Those same deep-set blue eyes, slightly down-turned, and a sharply pointed nose, though her face was less rectangular, and more heart-shaped. Her hair was dark, though that looked like it had been dyed, and she was dressed in the regulation teenage malcontent uniform of black jeans, a T-shirt displaying the spikey logo of a band I didn't recognise, and a weather-beaten leather jacket that looked very familiar, sleeves rolled up to reveal a scarlet lining.

But it was the boyfriend that really gave me pause, making me do a slight double-take. He was quite tall, and very, very thin, that sort of hungry, angular look of boys who had their growth spurt too quickly. He had long hair that was very definitely dyed black, as it showed lighter brown in shaved patches on the side, falling into a long, narrow, rectangular face with a heavy, square jaw. He, too, was wearing a leather biker jacket, and jeans in a sort of pleathery material that looked almost sprayed on, they were so narrow, topped off with what looked like a rivet in one of his ears, and a thick pair of chunky black plastic glasses. If it was slightly Freudian that Ralf was having an affair with a woman with his daughter's name, my god, Katrin was dating the spitting image of her own father in 1972.

She approached the side of the car sullenly, as if she were doing her father a favour, rather than the other way around. >>We're not going back to Krefeld<< she insisted.

>>Fine<< said Ralf. >>I am giving my colleague a ride to the train station, so we are going into Kempen.<<

Katrin looked over, and suddenly caught sight of me. I gave a single jaunty wave to her frown, though I noticed her attention suddenly pick up. >>Who is this?<<

Ralf stumbled slightly, sounding more than a little flustered. >>Katr... Well, this is another Katrina. She is my secretary.<<

>>I'm actually called Kate<< I offered.

Ralf suddenly smiled. >>Kate was just telling me that she also fought with her mother, when she was your age.<<

>>Really?<< asked Katrin, looking more than slightly suspicious.

>>Like cats and dogs<< I confessed. >>My brother used to call them great... almost operatic fights, all about the house.<<

"Operatische?" repeated Katrin, her lips crinkling into a mischievous smile that reminded me almost comically of her father, when he corrected my German malapropisms. >>Where are you from?<<

>>I'm from England. From London.<<

That seemed to settle it for her, as she looked backwards, then gestured with her head towards the car. Her silent, hulking boyfriend walked around to the other side and climbed in behind me, while she climbed in behind her father, without taking her eyes from me. >>So how did you end up in Germany, working for my Dad?<<

>>Well, I used to be a music writer.<<

Her curiosity seemed piqued as her father put the car into reverse and turned the vehicle around. >>I want to be a journalist<< she announced.

Ralf sighed deeply and rolled his eyes. >>Why do you want to go into a dying profession? There are no journalists any more. There are only... compilers. On the Huffingdorf Buzzfeed or what have you.<<

I threw Ralf an amused glance. "Is that the sort of thing your own father used to tell you when you told him that you wanted to be a musician?"

Ralf glared at me as his daughter protested >>Slowly, slowly. If you're going to talk English, please slow down so I can keep up.<<

>>You will have to improve your English if you want to be a journalist<< Ralf pointed out.

"I read and... write English... just fine. But... she talk... so fast! Perhaps... I... talk... English... with Kate" she said triumphantly. "Then I shall improve. Shall? Vill? Es ist 'shall', ja?"

"Very good," I laughed. "It is indeed shall."

"How do you... a writer become?"

"How do you _become_ a writer," corrected her father. "It is the other way around in English."

>>Oh, and I'm sure you spoke English fluently when you were fifteen<< she shot back with a dramatic teenage eyeroll.

>>When I was fifteen, I was fluent in four languages. But I spent my weekends studying, not running around Kempen with lovers!<< Ralf told her, with an edge that clearly spoke to me of frustrated paternal feelings, but was guaranteed to irritate any teenager in sight, for she let out a loud snort of laughter.

I cut between them, heading off the argument, speaking in a loud, clear, slow voice. "You become a writer by writing," I told her carefully. "Just practice, all of the time. However, you become a journalist by learning to pitch. Contrary to what your father says, I have quite a few friends who are professional journalists. You just have to learn how to pitch effectively."

"Pitch," she repeated. "What does this mean? Like the baseball?" She leaned forward, actually sticking her pointed little chin between the two front seats.

"It means to ask. You just have to keep asking editors to let you write. Suggest topics. Pick subjects to write about that you think will interest them, or you know you can write about well."

"You have to ask editors to write? They don't ask you?" Her eyes were huge. "I am thinking they give assignments, like in a school."

"Not to start with. You have to pester them until they let you write."

"She's very good at pestering, this one," Ralf pointed out, and I couldn't tell if his smile was pride or teasing, or both.

"And just start writing yourself. Start a blog. Start a zine. Build up your own portfolio, so that you have pieces, so you have a body of work you can show to an editor."

"A zzzeeeen," she said, gingerly, as if saying the word for the first time.

"What, you don't have zines in Germany?"

"Not in... many years, Well... maybe in Berlin?"

"Ach, don't listen to me. I'm from the past. I'm probably completely out of date." I exchanged glances with Ralf, again, feeling that sense that we were the same generation, compared to these youths.

"No!" she protested. "Is retro. Is very cool! 80s vintage, 90s vintage is very modische. You see my jacket?" She pronounced it exactly the same as the German, yah-kette. "This is the good thing to have parents from 80s. Vintage clothes, very cool."

I realised with a start where I had seen the beaten-up black leather jacket with the red lining before. It looked like it probably no longer fit Ralf, though it was quite oversized on his daughter. "The funny thing is, in the actual 80s, I used to steal my Mum's 60s clothes."

"And in the 70s, Flori and I wanted 50s vintage suits. Some things never change."

Suddenly, Katrin seemed distracted by something going by outside, and her pointed chin disappeared from between the seats. >>Papa, take us for pizza? We haven't eaten since breakfast.<<

>>Maybe, but... after I drop Katrina off at the train station.<<

>>No, can we bring her? Please, Papa? I can ask her about how they do _zines_ in England. It will be good practice for my English. <<

Ralf and I exchanged looks across the front of the car. I knew that this was a very bad idea. I knew that this was playing with fire. I knew that I should not start socialising with Ralf's daughter, no matter how enthusiastically she was jiggling on the back seat. This could only lead to trouble. This was not my family, these were not my people.

>>What kind of zine shall we do, Wolfie? Do you think I can do a zine about the Krefeld Emo scene? Oh, it's such a shame I have such a swine of a mother who won't let me go to the cool clubs.<<

I turned to Ralf, my attention diverted, and mouthed "Wolfie?" Ralf exaggeratedly rolled his eyes, as if to acknowledge the irony, as his daughter rattled on in the back seat.

>>Would we have to do an old-fashioned cut-out paper and glue zine, or would it be OK to use photoshop? I suppose even if we do it on a computer, we don't have to make it look slick. It could look, like, deliberately Tumblr weird, I suppose... Kind of Vaporwave, you know? Or should I keep it really professional looking, because I'm trying to build my portfolio? What do you think, Katrina You're the expert?<<

I laughed aloud. >>I'm not an expert on anything. But I would say do what expresses your own style. Don't copy what you think will be popular, or do things to impress other people.<<

>>Very good advice<< added Ralf.

>>You're so full of good advice! Please make her come and have pizza with us, Papa. Please? Make her come as our guest.<<

>>I can't make her do anything<< said Ralf, with a definite sly grin towards me. >>You will have to ask her yourself.<<

>>I don't want to intrude<< I said quietly, and I knew I should have pushed the point, should have got Ralf to drop me off at the train station.

But Katrin answered on her father's behalf. >>You're not intruding at all. You will be helping me, for my English test next week. Please come?<<

"It is your father's decision" I said, very carefully.

Ralf smirked back at me. "No, I think it is yours now. You are invited."

"Alright," I conceded, against my better judgement. "But we speak in English, if it is for your education."

The pizza parlour was fairly quiet on a Sunday afternoon, but Katrin's personality seemed to fill the place, despite her father touching her gently on the arm and saying >>Indoor voice, Katrin. Indoor voice.<<

>>It does me sorrow<< she said quickly, and just ploughed on at speed. Ralf and Wolfie sat opposite one another, two shy, silent men staring at one another with vague suspicion, while Katrin interrogated me. Well, no... that's not fair. She tried to interrogate me, but I kept deflecting her questions back onto her. No, my grades in high school weren't very interesting, but what was her favourite subject at Gymnasium? She told me gladly that it was German Composition, and raced off on another tangent. 

Despite my reservations, I found that I liked her, though I did find her curiously exhausting. She was obviously very bright, though not particularly focused, and with a chatty, outgoing streak that was so unlike her father that I thought that had to be Jutta. If they both wanted to be the chatty, outgoing one, that must be why they fought so much. She reminded me oddly of my own niece, though a little bit older. Very pretty, very lively, very bright, but unfocused and slightly scatty, with a casualness that came from growing up extremely wealthy.

And then it hit me, just as Katrin was telling me again how unfair her mother was, and how they got on so badly, and after all the child therapist had said that her father was supposed to make important decisions about her future, not her mother, because their personalities were so much more alike, before dashing back to talk for another ten minutes about the zine she was going to do, ranking the bands in the Krefeld Emo scene according to the coolness of their haircuts, detailing not just style and cut but their exact shade of Manic Panic dye... It seemed so obvious it felt like a slap in the face.

Katrin was like Ralf. And like me. And totally unlike her mother. My heart just went out to her, at that moment, as I realised she had inherited not just her father's deep-set blue eyes and pointed chin, but her father's Asperger's, too. And the realisation influenced me in making what was probably a very poor decision, but I decided to accept this friendship that Katrin was trying to force upon me with all the neediness of a lonely over-educated teenager. I encouraged her in her zine-making. I asked her about her taste in music, even though I had never heard of half the bands she liked. I solicited her opinions on what she liked about 80s retro fashion. And she opened up, much like her father had opened up several months earlier, when I actually asked questions that he was interested in. And Ralf, rather than looking put out or annoyed, actually looked grateful, as if I was teaching him something about his own child.

"So why do you like Emo?" I probed, teasing a little. "What is it about the music? Or is it more about the presentation, the clothes, the cool haircuts?"

"It is the texts. I mean... the lyrics!" she told me, remembering the English word a split second after the German. Her knowledge of English was a lot better than it first seemed. She had a large enough vocabulary; she just lacked the confidence to use it. "I heard first My Chemical Romance. I like how they look, and obviously, Gerard Way is very very schön..."

"Schön?" I laughed. "I don't know that he's nice. Isn't the whole point that he is the opposite of nice? He is rebellious? In English, if you fancy someone, you'd say that he was cute. Or, in his case, you would say that he was hot."

"Hot," repeated Katrin, and I could see that she was gobbling down the slang. "This is the English they do not teach us in school. Fancy? I have heard this before. What does it mean. Does it mean you want to do a fuck with a boy?"

Ralf suppressed a laugh as he glanced over towards Wolfie. "Is this such a nice thing, to say in front of your boyfriend?"

Wolfie merely shrugged, and mumbled from underneath his hair. "Gerard Way _is_ super hot. Even I fancy him a little."

He and Katrin grinned at one another, then she ploughed on. "I had seen posters, but when I heard first these words, I thought... wow. This man is a poet. So I started to listen to other, earlier punk bands. The Foo Fighters. Nirvana. Blink 182. But mostly I like Emo. Fall Out Boy. The Used. The Get-Up Kids. I like German bands like Durchaus! too. But most of all, My Chemical Romance."

I did my best not to snigger, preferring to suggest other bands rather than ruin her enjoyment with my opinions. "Emo, huh. Do you know Minor Threat, Rites of Spring, Nation of Ulysses?"

"Who?" Again, that sharp, curious look, like she wanted to gobble all of this information up.

"The very first emo bands, back in the 80s, when Emo first grew out of punk. How about Fugazi?" I probed.

"I have heard of Fugazi. Interpol like them, yes? But I have not heard them. Are they good? They must be."

I nearly spat out my coffee at the thought that Katrin might listen to Interpol. "Look on YouTube, or on Spotify for a song called Waiting Room, by Fugazi."

Katrin got out her phone and started fiddling with it madly, as if she were googling or even taking notes. "Waiting Room by Fugazi. What else should I listen to? I love punk. I want to know more about it."

"Do you know The Slits? Shoplifting? Or Gang of Four? Entertainment. That is a very underrated record. Look for Damaged Goods or Anthrax or At Home He Feels Like A Tourist."

"I think I have that one somewhere," interjected Ralf. "I always liked that line. 'He fills his head with culture, he gives himself an ulcer...'"

Katrin looked at her father, astonished. "You know punk bands?"

"I liked some of it, yes. That was my generation. I think I own that record. Gang of Four. And the Ramones, I have that at home somewhere, too. And the Stooges. They were the first real punk band. So now you have taken all of my old clothes, will you start taking my records, too?" He said it with real affection, rather than malice, and a slight touch of hope, as Katrin typed away at her phone.

"I had no idea. Where are they? In your office?"

"I will look, for you. When I get home," said Ralf, and pushed his plate away. "Are we having gelato for afters? Do you kids want gelato?"

"What flavours have they?" asked Katrin, her ears perking up as she looked about the restaurant. "Shall we go to find out, Wolfie?"

"You are good with children," Ralf observed quietly as Katrin and Wolfie went off to select their gelato flavours.

"I really am not," I protested. "Awkward teenagers, it's like I have a magnet for them. But kids? No."

"It makes me wonder why you never had kids of your own," said Ralf, and I knew he meant it as a compliment, but I felt like I'd been punched in the gut with the full force of a small nuclear explosion.

But wouldn't you know it, that was when Katrin reappeared. "You have no children?" she demanded. I shook my head, trying to recover from the unexpected sideswipe. "I think, this is a crime. That someone cool as you has no children, while someone as awful and un-understanding as my mother is allowed."

"I need the loo," I said, and fled without even waiting to be excused.

Behind me, I could hear Katrin's very much not indoor voice suddenly gasp. >>Oh my god, what did I say? Is she angry with me? Make her not be angry with me, Papa.<<

I locked myself in the tiny loo just as the tears started to come. I had no idea why the question had affected me so badly, but when tears like this hit, I knew it was best just to cry them out. I sat down on the toilet lid and sobbed for a bit, then did my best to try to compose myself. When I stopped to relieve myself, I was reminded by my inside-out knickers of the sex that had been interrupted by the appearance of this awkward teenager, and felt even worse.

It wasn't even the awkward question that had upset me, I realised, it was this sudden interruption of family life into Ralf's and my otherwise private and entirely adult affair. A wife and a child in abstract were one thing. An awkward teenager rabbitting at me about starting a punk zine was a completely different thing. It made it somehow worse that I liked her, that I related to her and actually wanted to help her out with some professional tips and music advice. That was the awkward part. There was no quicker route to my friendship than to ask my opinion on music, or my advice on writing, and she had been gobbling up my suggestions as if they were holy oracles. It was flattering as hell, the kind of flattery I was almost defenceless against.

Pulling myself back together, I dabbed at my eyes with wet paper towels to try to reduce the puffiness, then carefully rearranged my face into a smile, and walked back out with my head held high.

If I thought I had interrupted the flow of family dinner, I was wrong, for Katrin was telling her father at great length about the local Krefeld bands that she wanted to cover in her zine. I tried to slide into the table quietly, but I saw on the table before me a dish of ice cream.

Ralf touched me gently on the arm, and said "They had pina colada flavour. I remembered that you liked that."

"Thank you," I said quietly, though I could feel my face start to glow all over again. How absolutely sweet of him to remember. It was a tiny tug back to a happy night, the two of us chatting by the side of a swimming pool in Mexico.

Katrin talked solid through the meal, though she did occasionally solicit my opinion on various topics. Ralf, I think, was relieved by the need not to have to talk. Wolfie occasionally grunted, but mostly to agree with Katrin, especially if her father looked disapproving.

>>Papa, can you drive us into Düsseldorf? I want to check out the second hand record shop, and see if they have some of those records that Kate mentioned?<< Katrin urged, as Ralf settled the bill.

>>I do not think that that would be appropriate at this point in time<< said Ralf, very calmly. >>I will drive you home, or I will drive you to Wolfgang's parents' house, which is, I think, the best place for you to get assistance with the van.<<

>>Yeah<< said Wolfie laconically, the first time he had ventured an independent thought all evening. >>Kat, we need to get that looked at.<<

>>Ah!<< exclaimed Katrin, ignoring both the men in her life. >>I have had the best idea for a name for my zine! Let me tell you! Let me tell you!<<

>>Come on, Katrin, it is time to go...<< urged her father as he herded his family towards the door.

"Zeitpunkt!" she almost shouted, as I realised that her outdoor voice was indeed very much louder than her indoor voice. "It is a pun, yes? In German it means point in time. In English? Sight-punk!"

I turned to look at her and smiled, realising that she had inherited her father's love of wordplay. "That is actually really good, you know. You should definitely use that."

The teenager absolutely beamed as we climbed into the car. "Do you think, maybe perhaps..." The way she said it was so like Ralf I realised it was just her father's phrase that she had picked up. "... that I could send my writing to you, to look over, before I publish it? Since you are professional after all?"

"Now, now," interrupted Ralf. "Kate is very busy with her work. You must not be a nuisance." He sounded almost put out at the thought that I might work with anyone else. "Kate is going back to the Berger Allee, to work on her work. You may go home to work on your own, but you must not pester Kate."

He drove directly to the station, with no more faffing about, despite his daughter's entreaties that they stop here, or there, as she was clearly just using delaying tactics. As he pulled up outside the station, he asked if I had money for the train. I laughed and resisted the urge to bend forwards and kiss him, which I would have done, had the kids not been in the car.

"Don't forget your cycle," said Ralf, and I stared at him for a moment. With the interruption of the two teenagers, I had completely forgotten that it was still on the rack on the back of his car.

Katrin thrust her pointed little chin between the seats and announced "It was very nice to meet you, Kate. I hope to be seeing you again very soon," in perfect examination English.

"Nice to meet you, too, Katrin," I said, then turned back to Ralf. "Is it locked, or can I just take it?"

"Wait, I'll come out and unlock it," said Ralf, switching off the car's engine and removing his keys. He walked around to the back, and I followed him, as he unlocked the bike rack and lifted the bike down. He glanced towards the back seat of the Mercedes, and for a moment, I was afraid he was going to bend forward and kiss me, but we were very definitely being observed from the back seat. "I love you," he said, as quietly as possible, as he handed the bike over.

"I love you too," I whispered back, took the bike by its handlebars, and fled to the safety of the station.


	7. Playing Hooky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The two Katrins in Ralf's life, the writer and the schoolgirl, start playing a dangerous game with one another.

My head was in an utter state for the rest of the evening. I did not know how to handle this. Although I had thought, in idle moments, how I would comport myself if I had ever been confronted with Jutta, Katrin had been a nebulous, unknown quantity. I suppose from the way that Ralf talked about her, I had thought her still a child, all pony club and prize ribbons. But she was just at that age where she was starting to explore adulthood, without having fully grown out of her childish idealism. And with her father's wealth, it was entirely possible that her naïveté might be very great indeed. There was a big part of me that wanted to protect her, to guide her and advise her, keep her away from the pitfalls.

But there was a bigger part of me that remembered, you could not preserve teenagers from pitfalls, and expressly forbidding them only made them more enticing. All you could do was provide a sound example, and hope that they followed it. And what kind of example was I setting? What kind of example was Ralf setting? That had been so irresponsible - uncharacteristically irresponsible - allowing his daughter to encounter his mistress like that. I resolved to admonish Ralf when I saw him again, to tell him that that had been an unpardonable lapse, and that it must be prevented from ever happening again in the future.

The next morning, Ralf was in an uncommonly good mood, whistling to himself as he climbed the stairs and retreated to his office. I followed out of sheer habit, locked the door behind me, then kicked off my shoes and started to unbutton my shirt.

Ralf slipped off his shoes, then slid his cycling pants down off his hips, stepping out of them before reclining on the sofa, then he held out his arms for me to join him. I removed jeans and pants in one go, then climbed onto his lap. He wasn't quite hard yet, but I knew if I started to rub my breasts across his face the way he liked, that he would be very soon. Morning sex in the office was a ritual we had refined down almost to a science. The pair of us could go from professional business presentation to full-on fucking in a matter of minutes.

"You know," said Ralf, as I unzipped his nylon anorak - my nylon anorak, actually, as I'd gone off with his leather jacket the previous evening - and started to kiss his neck and his shoulders. "I fear you have made another conquest in the Hütter family. Someone cannot stop talking about you."

Pulling back sharply, I looked down into his eyes. "Ralf, you've got to put a stop to this. This could be trouble. This could be real trouble."

"Oh, don't worry so much," sighed Ralf, pulling my breasts towards him and kissing them, dragging my nipples to attention with his teeth as I could feel him rising between my thighs. "She's a teenager. She has a new obsession every week. Last year, it was ponies. She was obsessed with horses and horse racing and she knew the name of every jockey in every race in Europe. This year, it is punk. They are very intense, these obsessions, but they are short. She becomes absolutely fixated on it for a few months, then she moves on. I would not worry about it."

"Ralf, i know this is hard for you to understand," I said, kissing his hair, kissing the bald patch on the back of his head, kissing his neck. "The emotions of teenage girls are very powerful things, and not easily disposed of, once they are aroused. Just remember that, and be careful of arousing what..."

All at once, Ralf adjusted his hips, and slipped inside me, and all of my thoughts and worries and concerns disappeared. When Ralf was inside me, it was impossible to think of anything except Ralf, and his pleasure, and my pleasure, and how perfectly our bodies fit together, and how we became like two machines, his piston pumping back and forth between us as we moved in harmony. It was one of those few times when I felt at perfect balance with the world. When I was cycling, when we were fucking, and when I was writing. The rest of the world vanished, and my entire consciousness became incredibly focused on tiny, minute, but immensely pleasurable motions. My mouth met his, the slightly sour taste of coffee filled my senses, and I forgot whatever it was we had been talking about.

Orgasm cleared our heads and set us up for working. It was strange how that happened. No matter what we had been thinking about before, the burst of hormones and euphoria was a signal that it was time to start getting down to writing with a new burst of focus and energy. "I deposit my seed in you," said Ralf, who loved to watch me swallow his sperm, with my mouth or my Muschi. "And then you nurture it and turn it into words."

A brief shower, and then we regrouped on the sofa, the laptop between us instead of his cock, as we sat down to write. Inspired by listening to his old punk records, Ralf decided that he wanted to go back and review the chapters of 1978 and 1979, to discuss his awareness of the music that had been exploding around them. He started to sift through his opinions of the Ratinger Hof (exciting music, but a bad crowd) and Match Moore (more refined music, more sophisticated people) and other forgotten venues that had sprouted up for a few months at a time in Düsseldorf and Krefeld and the surrounding area. For a time, there had even been an impromptu punk club in Aachen, for the university students!

These memories obviously brought him great pleasure, and I got the impression that he had been playing through old records with his daughter the previous night. >> _Real Work, Real Pay_... now that was an exciting record! They gave me the seven inch, you know? It was a kind of exchange. I think the younger generation saw us as... well, we had become to them, the Establishment that they needed to impress or reject. What a strange thought. You think it will never happen to you, and then one day, you wake up and you realise that although there was never an announcement, or even a line you were aware of crossing, that the positions had reversed. We spent our youths rebelling against Establishment Artists, only to discover we had become one. <<

>>Was that why you disappeared for three years?<<

>>But we did not disappear!<< protested Ralf. >>Well, I suppose, in a way, it was a conscious rejection. We did not want to become what they wanted us to be. So we turned our backs on it. We turned inwards. Focused less on trying to impress or reject others, and more on ourselves. We did not feel like we were disappearing. Quite the contrary, we felt like we were working very hard. But working very hard on becoming more ourselves. To turn inwards can be a good thing, especially in a snobby, incestuous city like Düsseldorf.<<

It was an unexpectedly productive day. Ralf's memories had been jogged, and he seemed to need to unload them. I typed what I could, but he was talking so fast I was grateful that I had a speed control on the recording device that sat, as always, on the table. He ordered dinner in, from the Japanese restaurant across the business park, and we sat talking late into the night. It was after midnight by the time I left Klingklang, cycling home along completely empty streets, back to my home.

 

I woke late the next morning to find that I had run out of milk. My landlord had already gone out, and anyway, he did not take milk with his tea, so I showered quickly and made my grumbling way down the stairs to walk across to Carlsplatz to buy some more.

But I had got only a few yards from my door, when I heard someone call my name. I looked about, startled. It was a female voice, and I remembered that Müller had taken the day off to spend with Graciella, so we had agreed to meet for lunch at an art gallery later that afternoon. But when I turned, it was not Müller; it was a girl in a school uniform.

"Kate!" she cried again. "It's me, Katrin!" I stopped and stared. With her face clean of punk eyeliner, and her hair scraped back into a neat ponytail that revealed blonder roots below the dye, she looked much younger than she had at the weekend.

"What on earth are you doing here?" I sputtered. "Shouldn't you be in school?"

"School is so boring. And your English lessons is much more interesting," shrugged Katrin.

"How do you even know where I live?"

"Papa said it, when you left on the train. Kate has to go back to the Berger Allee to work on her work. He said this morning, he did not have to rush into work early because you were working from home, so I put two and two together." She smiled smugly, as if very proud of this sleuthing.

"How long have you been here?" I demanded.

She glanced at her watch. "Only an hour."

"Christ," I swore.

"Is that an English swear? You must teach me all the English swears. Like, what does 'sod' mean? The Sex Pistols, the very greatest punk band, they use this word often. 'Sod this and sod that, sod it all and something the sodding brat...' I thought it means soil, but that does not make sense."

Rubbing my eyes, I decided honesty was the best policy. "It's short for sodomy. As in, illicit sexual intercourse. 'Sod it' is a sly way of saying 'fuck it'. But Katrin, you cannot be here. Where is your school? You must go back. Christ, it's too early for this. I need tea..."

"Can we go to a cafe?" suggested Katrin. "I have so many questions for you! I will buy you a coffee."

My need for caffeine won out over any grain of sense in my head. "Alright. One coffee. And then you are getting straight back on the next tram to Krefeld."

Her face lit up like an electrical substation as she pranced off down the street. I thought we would just go to a little neighbourhood coffeeshop, but Katrin, as picky as her father, had other ideas, and insisted on a visit to Cafe Bittner. She, too, demanded a seat in the window, though the staff were not quite as deferential to Fraulein Hütter as to her father. She ordered not just coffee for me and hot chocolate for herself, but cake and ice cream, as well. So the sweet tooth was hereditary, too.

"I read your blog," she announced, just as the coffee came.

" _What_?!" I sputtered, thankful that I had not yet taken a sip to spit out all over the table. "Which blog?" I mentally ran though which of my neglected Tumblrs could do the most damage.

"This Band Could Be Your Life. I read your week about Kraftwerk. It was very interesting."

"How did you find out about that?" I sputtered, trying to remember if there had been any links from it back to my Twitter, my Tumblr. I had been so careful about concealing my identity that Ralf had had to contact Hans through his lawyers to find out who I was, but this teenager was already proving herself devious.

"I asked Papa how he knew you. It was a most natural question." She grinned slyly, and started to lick all the cream off the top of her hot chocolate. "I googled and it came up very easily. So I took all of my English and History and Art Appreciation classes to read it yesterday. I thought that was appropriate. I learned many new words. Queer. Polysemic. Transmasculinity. Some of these, I had to google, as they were not in the dictionary."

I stared at her as I sipped my coffee, remaining very quiet as I tried to think how to react. "Oh?" I said, as if this were the most natural thing in the world. "Was that elucidating for you?"

She blinked at the unfamiliar word. "What is eel you sea dating?"

"E-lucidating. From the Latin e- or ex-, and lucid, meaning light or clarity. Bringing out into clarity and light. It's another way of saying educational. Something you learn from."

"You always say the most interesting things. I wish you were our English teacher," she sighed, licking chocolate icing off her spoon.

"You should be at school. I should call your father," I said churlishly.

"I don't think you will call my father," she said, opening her eyes very wide. "Because I have read your blog, and I am a girl. I see things that he does not, because my father is very naive, when it comes to these matters. I think you have a crush on my father. The way you write about him, the things you say, you write about him exactly the way that my girlfriends and I write about Gerard Way. So you don't tell him that I have skipped school, and I don't tell him that you think he is... what did you say? Hot. You fancy him. I think you want a sod with him."

I almost burst out laughing, at how pathetic her attempt at blackmail was. I should have been offended, even frightened, but mostly I was just amused. How sophisticated, this child thought she was, and yet how dumb. And yet, I had to remind myself that the threat had teeth. It was not telling her father that I was worried about. It was what she might tell her mother. I kept quiet, but couldn't help the smile from spreading across my face and a giggle from colouring my voice. "You think, that I have a crush. On your father. Really."

At that, her confidence seemed slightly shaken and she backed down. "OK. I am sorry; I am no good at this. It was a very silly conclusion to reach. Papa is an old man. He was already an old man, when I was born! He was well into his 50s, and Mama was nearly 40. I just..." She looked down at her cake, and I could see that she was already regretting what she had just said. "I am sorry. I am not good at this kind of thing. It works when Lisabet Shrödinger does it to our friends, but I am not so good."

I almost winced, remembering how cruel teenage girls could be in high school. Katrin, at least, unlike me, seemed aware that interpersonal politics were a thing, though she seemed utterly unable to play them. "Look, Katrin," I said. "Don't play schoolgirl games with me, and I will be straight with you, OK?"

"OK," she conceded, slightly sulkily.

"So tell me. Why are you here?"

She looked down at her lap, dropping her spoon and toying with the buttons of her school duffel coat instead. "I read your piece. It was really very good. I learned things about music... well, I learned things about Papa that I never knew. It is a funny thing, suddenly to see this life your father had before there was you. I have always grown up with Kraftwerk, like this extra geschwister, always in the background. And I have always known that he loves Kraftwerk maybe perhaps more than his own family."

"That is not true," I said, though I could see why she thought it.

She smiled wryly, though she did not contradict me directly. "I always knew that they are very important, but I never knew why. I read your piece, and I start to see why people love them so very much. Why people love _him_ so much. You are not the first fan that has come to the house." As she paused, we both sipped our drinks.

"Ouch," I said, suddenly wondering if she had been at home when I... no. Wait. It had been a school day; I was sure of that.

"Usually I try to avoid the fans. Mama says they are crazy. But since I started going to clubs..." Here, she looked up at me from under her eyelashes with a naughty expression. "You must not tell them I go to clubs. Mama thinks I only go to clubs for the drinking. I do not even drink. It tastes bad, and I do not like the way it makes me feel dizzy and stupid. I go for the music. I love it. I love the sound of punk so much, I love how it makes me feel, it makes me feel so wild, so free, when the guitars are really laut, and the drums go bumm-bumm-bumm-bumm..." Her whole face lit up as she described the sound, and my heart ached for her. I knew that feeling, to have your whole being woken up by a beat. "Music is the _best_ thing, you know?" she intoned, her voice sounding more than a little awestruck. "Mama does not understand why I love Emo. She says it's laut and the people are dirty. Papa, well, I think he is glad I interest myself in music. Because music was his thing, but I don't think he likes my music..."

"I think your Papa would share it with you, if you could find a way," I said quietly.

She shook her head slowly. "I do not think Papa likes music at all any more, even though he is a musician. He never plays it, at home. Sunday night, when he finds the Ramones album and the Gang of Four album and Die Krupps singles for me, that was the first time he hat used the record player since... since I have remember. Does he listen to music at work? Ever?"

I shook my head as I realised that we never listened to music at Klingklang. In fact, Ralf had made no move to listen to music since I had played him Kaitlyn Aurelia Smith and Factory Floor, back when he had first hired me. "Not unless I make him," I confessed.

"The way you write about music," she continued, staring at me with all of her teenage intensity. "It makes me feel as if I'm there. All of my feelings, that I have, when I listen to MCR, and to Durchaus! and to Nirvana... I wish I could write about music the way that you can. Maybe then, I could explain. Maybe perhaps I could show my Mama, why I need to go to the clubs..."

I shook my head slowly, smiling wistfully. "I'm sorry Katrin, but it doesn't really work like that. My Mum... she is not musical. At all. I have tried so many times, to explain what it means to me, but... no. I mean, she is proud of me, when I get a piece published, in the newspaper, or in a magazine like The Wire, but no matter what I write, I can never explain to someone who is un-musical, what it means to really really love a piece of music."

At this, she lowered her head and stuck her chin forward, in a slightly conspiratorial gesture. "Do you really hate your mother?"

"No," I almost laughed. "I love her to bits now. She has changed - a lot - and I have grown up - a lot. And we don't fight like we used to. We have learned how to co-exist, and how not to fight. And there is no one else in the world that loves me like she does. Even when we quarrel. It's such a big, big love that I think it makes her kind of crazy, out of fear, out of worry..."

But Katrin nodded, and smiled, completely distracted by something. "Gigantic," she sang softly, surprising me that she caught the reference. "Gigantic, gigantic, a big, big love... I adore that song."

I laughed aloud. "That song came out when I was your age, you know."

"There is no way you can be that old."

"Flattery will not work, young lady," I told her mock-sternly. "But seriously. As you get older, you start to understand. Fear of something bad happening to someone that you love, it makes parents crazy. And sure, when I was your age, my god, my Mum and I, we could not even be in the same room without screaming at one another. Fighting is part of the separation process, of growing up, I think. But now that I am old, when I'm down, she's the only person I want to talk to."

She peered at me curiously. "No, really. How old are you?"

"None of your business," I almost yelped with laughter.

Blushing as she realised she this might seem really rude, she probed "So you were a teenager when the Pixies were starting out.  Do you remember Nirvana?"

"I think I was a bit too old for Nirvana, when they came out. I preferred Sonic Youth."

"Yeah, I've heard of them," she nodded. "But you are not really old, not like Papa is old. You are not even as old as my mother."

"How old is your mother?" asked a catty thing that spoke with my voice.

Katrin stopped for a moment and counted on her fingers. "She is 53? No, she is 54 now."

I tried not to show my shock. I had always just assumed that Jutta was older, closer to Ralf's age, probably about Gudrun's age or so. But she was not even a decade older than I was. "I am much closer to your mother's age than I am to yours."

"You do not act it," she shrugged. I stared at her, almost reeling from her rudeness, but then remembered that she actually just did not realise that what she was saying was rude. "I cannot imagine that my mother and I will ever be friends. She just does not understand anything about me."

"Oh, come on. Weren't you friends when you were a little kid?"

Katrin frowned as if pondering this, and looked so like her father I almost laughed aloud. It was hard not to be fond of her for his sake. "Well," she finally said. "I think she has always found me... difficult."

"What makes you say that?"

"It is what she told the child therapist, a few years ago."

I might have been disturbed by this, had I not been through the mill with my own parents, and my own child therapist, who saved my life in many ways, at her age. "If it's not too personal, why do you see a child therapist?"

"Because reasons. School, mostly," she said, with a defensiveness that made me realise it was an overly personal question to have asked, even though she brought it up.

"I saw a child therapist, when I was your age, too," I casually let drop.

She looked at me very suspiciously. "Why? If it is not _too personal_?" She perfectly echoed the tone with which I had said those words.

"I was dreadfully unhappy. I became very depressed. I basically stopped functioning, in any meaningful way." I took a deep breath and finished the last of my coffee. "I wouldn't know the word for it, for another 25 years, but I was wrestling with what would eventually be diagnosed as Asperger's."

At that, she smiled slowly, and spread her fingers in a vague sort of shrug. "Oh yes. We know all about that."

"You, too, huh," I said, as gently as I could.

"That is what the child therapist reckoned," she conceded, then her mouth crumpled into a wicked grin. "But if I am on the Spectrum, Papa is in the sodding Ultraviolet."

I laughed aloud. She laughed with me. For a moment, it felt very conspiratorial, and I wished that she was just someone off the internet, some Tumblr kid, and not the rebellious teenage daughter of my married lover. "Now, Katrin. I have finished my coffee. And you have finished your cake. You must go back to school, and I need to get on with my work."

She nodded reluctantly. "Is it all right if I send you some of my writing? Tell me what you think? Be honest?"

I sighed deeply, then nodded. "Alright. But I am walking you to the Krefeld Tram to make sure you get on it."


	8. A Cat In A Box

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Müller and Graciella grow closer, they try to work out a way for the two of them to live together. Unsure of their new position towards one another, Ralf tries to change the legal relationship between himself and Katrin. And Katrin the writer, against her better judgement, starts mentoring teenage Katrin.

After finally getting rid of Ralf's awkward teenager, I picked up two litres of milk at Rewes, then went home to try to work for a few hours, before I was due to meet Müller and Graciella. But it was rough going, and I was having trouble concentrating. The section I was editing just would not flow right, yet I could not think of another way to phrase the complex point that Ralf was trying to make, without completely stripping away his authorial voice. It would have been easier if he were there, I could make him explain it again until he hit on a less German phrasing. I picked up my Android to text him or email him, but then I thought better of it. If he asked me how my morning was going, I would be too tempted to tell him about his daughter's visit, and yet Katrin had extracted a promise of silence from me, in exchange for her getting on the tram without a fuss. I flicked through Tumblr for a few minutes to scratch the smartphone itch, then put the phone down, and wrestled with the clumsy grammar of my sentence some more, looking up each work in the phrase in the thesaurus to try to find another way of saying it.

Finally, I gave up trying to write, and headed across town to the K20. Müller and Graciella were already in the cafe, Müller sucking at her vape stick while Graciella scribbled in a notebook of some kind. As soon as I sat down, the waitress came over, and we ordered lunch.

>>This is kind of a weird question<< I broached nervously. >>But have you ever met the other Katrin?<<

>>The other Katrin?<< Müller looked blank.

>>Hütter.<<

>>Oh, that Katrin. Sure, yeah. Met her at one of the company barbecues a couple of summers ago. Nice enough kid. _Really_ into ponies. Will talk your ear off about anything to do with horses. << Müller reminisced. >>Why?<<

>>Met her after the cycle ride on Sunday. Just curious.<<

>>I don't expect Hütter wants her in the book, though. He's very private about his family.<< Müller warned me.

I was going to ask her what made her think I would put her in the book at all, when Graciella sat up with a small cry. >>There! Finished.<< And then she produced a tiny pen and ink sketch of Müller. >>I think it is a good likeness.<<

>>God, is my nose that big<< laughed Müller, but I took the sketchbook from Graciella and stared at the portrait. It was beautifully executed, densely layered to bring up the three-dimensionality of Müller's hair and clothes, with all sorts of spiralling Aztec-looking designs woven into the background.

>>Did you just draw this?<< I asked, flabbergasted.

>>Well, I do a little while we wait for you<< Graciella conceded.

>>This is incredible. You're very talented.<<

>>You think so? Thank you, you are very kind. Do I put it on my Twitter, do you think?<< I handed it back, and she took out her phone and snapped a quick picture.

>>You have a Twitter?<< I asked. >>Do you mind if I follow you?<<

>>Not a bit. I am on @GraciellaDraws.<< 

I pulled out my phone and fiddled with it. >>OK, I've just followed you. I'm @KateTremaine.<< We followed one another quickly, before I retweeted her drawing with the comment 'look at this amazing portrait my friend has just done'.

>>You are too nice!<< giggled Graciella, and then beamed. >>Wow. Two of your friends already like it. See, I told you it is a good likeness, Flo.<<

>>Actually, that one is nothing<< shrugged Müller with a hint of pride. >>Show her the drawing you did down in Köln yesterday.<<

>>Here, it is a few pages back<< directed Graciella, passing over her sketchbook. And yet, as I leafed through the drawings, incredible scenes flashed by beneath my fingertips. A few pages back, there was a strange drawing, half icon, half sketch, showing Müller and Graciella, visiting the cathedral, though that was only the half of what was going on in the drawing. Graciella was kneeling at the bottom, lighting a candle in a rack of candles suggested by glowing bubbles coloured in, in bright yellow. Next to her, Müller stood, looking out of the canvas with a sceptical expression, her clothes red, her hair golden, while above both of them, a statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary beamed benediction and love like blue and purple rays down on the pair of them. In the background, there were suggestions of cathedral architecture, but again rendered in that complex, writhing Aztec style, all richly coloured.

>>You are wasted at an ad agency<< I told her, marvelling over the drawing, and her distinctive style. >>You should try to get a show here. People would love this stuff.<<

>>That is what Müller said.<< said Graciella, smiling with pleasure at the praise for her work.

>>Yeah, I also said that you should apply to do your Masters at the Kunstakademie. That way you could get a student visa to stay in Düsseldorf. Education is free in Germany, you know.<<

>>Only for EU citizens<< Graciella pointed out, with the smoothness of a discussion they had been having all week. >>Anyway, where would I stay?<<

>>I could think of somewhere you could stay<< suggested Müller. >>Somewhere very cheap, nice roommate.<<

>>I don't know. It is a very big step.<< Graciella looked genuinely torn, as I continued to examine her sketchbook, absolutely amazed by the beauty and originality of her work. I let them get on with their coupled-up squabbles, just filling my eyes with this gorgeous work, as Graciella started to counter that Müller could perfectly well move to Mexico City, as good sound engineers were always in demand there.

As we ate, they talked through the various possibilities, and I was happy to play counter-foil for either scenario. I actually found it really cute, the way both of them actually seemed to be earnestly talking through the realities of moving to Mexico or relocating to Germany. This pair really did seem to be becoming serious about one another, very fast. Yes, it was amazing to see the normally cynical Müller actually caught up in this very sweet romance, but there was a part of me that was afraid for her. It was such a huge step, for either of them to move halfway round the world for someone they had known a little over two months. And Graciella was being the pragmatic one, trying to think through the practicalities while Müller spun these huge, romantic plans.

I loved being with them. The pair of them were just so sweet and so happy and so swept up in it all that it was hard not to smile at them and say "ah" and believe in the life-changing possibilities of love. Especially when I realised, from the way that Graciella talked, that both of them were of an age where they had started to give up on love.

When Müller got up to go to the loo, Graciella's eyes followed her so mistily that I leaned forward, lowering my voice and switching to English. "You two are really in love, aren't you?"

Graciella smiled, and looked down bashfully, before turning her huge, doe-like brown eyes towards me. "Do you know, I truly am in love. Perhaps for the first time. _Truly_ , that is. Now, I have been in love before, of course. But it always felt... wrong. Limiting, somehow. Like I was a cat, that was trying to settle down in a box that was too small for me. Do you know this Twitter account, Cats In Small Spaces?"

"I know Cats in Sinks. I don't know that one specifically, but I can imagine," I laughed, nodding because I knew exactly what she meant.

"I will find it for you. It's really funny. But this is how I felt, always, in love. Like a cat in a tiny fruitbowl, and if I can get my front paws in, I cannot get my tail in; or the other way round. I thought always it was the man that was wrong, that it was the relationship that was wrong. But it turns out, it was me. I never had the faintest glimmer that I could be with a woman. And then I meet Müller. With Müller, I never have to hide anything about who I am, or what I feel. I never have to pretend. I never have to choose between leaving out my paws or my tail. We just _are_ , and Müller accepts all of it, and the relationship gets bigger and bigger so that it holds all of me, and her as well. But this is so serious, come, let me show you these funny cats..."

I could see her blush as she took out her phone again, and so I let her change the subject as she showed me photos of bonsai kittens and cats squeezed into improbable boxes and bags and bowls. We were still laughing when Müller returned.

>>What are you two laughing about?<< she demanded, not even jealously, but as if she wanted to be let in on the joke.

>>Graciella was just telling me you were shit in bed<< I teased.

>>Ha! As if<< giggled Müller as Graciella handed her the phone to show her a particularly amusing video of a cat getting comfortable on an improbably small doll's bed. >>My god, that is even funnier than the one you showed me yesterday. Are there any other updates? How about We Rate Dogs? Are there any new dog ratings yet?<< And the pair of them hunched over the phone and started cooing over funny animal pictures. >>If I move to Mexico City, can we get a dog?<<

We had a wonderful afternoon together, full of laughter. But as the afternoon lengthened and they went off to their Valentine's Day Surprise, I walked home feeling very, very alone. I checked my phone again, but there was nothing. Of course there wouldn't be; Ralf was probably with his wife. Although I had told myself that I wouldn't get caught up in these petty little concerns, I ached at the thought that he probably had reservations for some romantic candlelight dinner in a fancy restaurant in Krefeld, while here I was, going back to an empty flat, alone. I didn't even have the strength to face the the bistro downstairs.

I poured myself a glass of Sekt and sat at the dining room table, looking out over Düsseldorf as night fell, feeling really rather sorry for myself. I had known, without Graciella even having to say, the kinds of things that she had to 'leave out of the bowl' to have a relationship. To have to choose between having a physical connection, or having an artistic or intellectual connection. To have to choose between being a good wife worthy of respect, or being a sexual entity animated by her own lusts and passions, instead of a passive receptacle for them.

For the first time in my life, I thought I had found a relationship where the intellectual spark of creativity was matched by the desire to fuck one another senseless. And yet, still, I was like a cat trying to get comfortable in a too-small fruitbowl, because I could never ever acknowledge that love or that lust in front of my friends and my community. It was like being in the closet again. No, wait, it was _worse_ than being in the closet. Being in the closet was about avoiding the ugly actions of others. Our need for silence was about our own ugly actions. A flash of irritation at Jutta and that brat of hers leapt into my mind, but I instantly quashed it. The only person I had any right to be angry at was Ralf.

When the doorbell rang, I very nearly didn't answer it, but it buzzed again a minute later. Wondering if it was my landlord forgetting his keys again, I stuck my head out the window, only to see a delivery man standing at the door.

>>Who is it for?<< I called down, wondering if my night was going to be made even worse by having to sign for flowers from one of my landlord's lady admirers.

>>I have flowers for Katrin on the third floor?<< the young man called back up.

My heart leapt as I picked up the keys and dashed down all of the flights of stairs at speed. Only one person in Germany called me Katrin. But on about the third flight, I started to worry. There was one another person that called me Katrin. After having extolled the virtues of my relationship with my mother to a sullen teenager that morning, was I about to have my heart broken by my mother's good intentions?

>>Sign here<< said the young man, brandishing an electronic device.

>>Who are they from?<< I asked as he handed me a huge cardboard box.

>>Doesn't say. Happy Valentine's<< he said, tipping his hat as he went off with at least another half dozen boxes on his trundle.

Even as I climbed the stairs, I kept catching the whiff of roses. And when I got upstairs, locating a vase and a boxcutter in Karlheinz's kitchen, I found that yes, someone had delivered a dozen red roses. There was no name in the 'from' box, no address in the return delivery, not even a card. No, wait, as I pulled them from the box to put them in water, a small white rectangle fell out.

"Ich liebe dich" was all it said, but I would know that messy scrawl of handwriting, in black gel pen, anywhere.

I pulled out my phone and started texting, not even caring if I was interrupting some romantic dinner. 'Thank you, they just arrived. The sentiments expressed? I agree a thousand fold.'

The response arrived almost immediately. 'oh good I'm glad' followed a little later by another. 'they were supposed to arrive this morning but the delivery company overbooked. I was terrified they would not reach you until tomorrow, in which case, I would expect to be sacked.'

'How am I supposed to sack you, when you are the boss?'

'As far as I am concerned, you are always the boss of me.'

It was absurd, really, I tried to tell myself, as I put the roses by the head of my bed, where I would smell them all night. A silly, bourgeois, heteronormative ritual that meant nothing. And yet those roses made me inexplicably happy, like, here, at last, was a tangible sign that he really loved me. I had it in black and white gel pen.

 

When Ralf arrived at Klingklang the next morning, I was sitting at the kitchen table having a cup of tea and a snack, wondering how long it would be until Müller came back to work, as I missed her company. What would I do if she really moved to Mexico? But Ralf smiled at me, and gestured for me to stay put, placing an envelope in front of me before walking across the kitchen to make a cup of coffee.

"What is this? Do I get a card, as well?"

"Not exactly. They are HR forms."

"How romantic," I teased.

"Katrin," he said, looking at me very seriously as he sat down next to me. "This is necessary. It is a notice of change of line manager. Given how our... positions have changed, I do not think that it is appropriate for me to continue as your line manager, in a legal sense. So I need to give you notice that you are now to report to someone else."

I frowned at the document, in complex legal German, though a brief perusal showed that it was exactly what he said it was. "Why are you doing this? Are you thinking of firing me?"

"No, not at all!" he blurted out quickly. "Quite the reverse. But there are legal formalities that must be adhered to."

"I don't understand. You don't want me to work for you any more?" I could feel my face growing hot, feel my heart starting to pound in my chest.

"You will still work with me, but you will no longer _report_ to me, from a legal standpoint. Katrin, this is to protect you. I know that I do not make very rational decisions, when it comes to you. I think with my heart - and with my cock - not with my brain. Last night, after making that joke to you, I suddenly thought. What would happen to your position here, if you were to grow angry with me, for example, for forgetting flowers on Valentine's Day, and you decided to end things with me? I want you to be protected, upon that eventuality." The concerned look in his deep blue eyes actually frightened me a little.

"Ralf, I have no intention of ending things with you. Especially not over something so petty as a mix-up of a delivery. But surely, you own the company. You are the big boss, no matter what happens."

"This is not how German companies work. You have a line manager, who can advocate for you, if there is a problem between a worker and an employer. Please understand, I am trying to do right by you, and take care of your future. I want you to have this. Just in case. So I have reassigned you, so that you now have Gudrun as your line manager."

"Gudrun?" I gasped, remembering that awkward conversation about the telephone location app when we had first started our affair. "Do you really think that's a good idea?"

"Why ever not? I thought you liked her."

"Ralf, you used to date her. I don't know that she's unbiased either."

He looked at me very carefully for a few moments. "I did not realise that you knew that. It was a very long time ago. But... as you wish. Who would you prefer? Günter? Henning? Fritz?" And then he smiled mischievously. "We shall not give you to Falk, we know he has too much of a crush on you already. I do not believe he would be unbiased, either."

"Falk does not have a crush on me," I protested, in the familiar argument, rolling my eyes.

"Alright, we will make it Günter, then. Any objections?" I shook my head, and he scratched out Gudrun's name on the form and wrote in Günter in its place, adding his initials and the date, to show that he had approved the change. "Please sign." I signed. "Now. Shall we go upstairs, and do what we both wish we could have been doing last night?"

I wanted to toss back something about his wife and the intimate candlelight dinner in the expensive restaurant in Krefeld, but I bit my tongue, and followed him upstairs to take advantage of his body behind a carefully locked door.

I won my way, that afternoon. Ralf agreed to push on past the Katalog, and towards the museum shows for the finale, though he said he would discuss Florian's departure only briefly. Already, we were making fast progress on the 00s, and were nearly through the decade. It was strange how, after the detail of the 70s and early 80s, time seemed to speed up the further we went. There were maybe a dozen pages on the 00s, where there had been over two hundred on the period from 1975 to 1978.

"Time dilation," I quipped. "We accelerate with age. Soon we will be at the present day. What if we overtake ourselves, and end up writing ourselves into the future?"

But Ralf's laughter at my joke did not last long. "It makes me sad, though," he confessed. "That we will soon be finished."

"I know what you mean," I said. "When I reach the logical end of the narrative, I do usually feel a huge sense of relief, of peace, that I've managed to get the whole thing out. But I also feel quite a lot of sadness. That's normal. It can be hard to let go. Didn't you used to feel the same, when you finished an album?"

But Ralf ignored my question. For a moment, he simply looked totally bereft. "But I don't want to let go of you. Will you and I go on, when the book is done?"

I laughed and moved closer to him, flicking his curl of hair out of his forehead, as I dodged the question. "Ralf, we are nowhere near _done_. This is the end of the _first_ draft. You don't even think of showing it to a publisher or even an editor until you're on at least your third."

Relief flooded his face. "And how long does that take?"

"They say it takes about twice as long to edit a manuscript as it does to write it."

"So you will be here until the summer, at the very least."

I had not thought of it. I had done my very best not to think of it. But at that moment, I did actually start to wonder, what would happen when the 'Produkt' was delivered, and he had no more professional use of me. Would Klingklang just go on paying my rent, and paying my expenses forever, even after I had no more work? I could not stay in Germany without a job. And with Brexit still so unsettled and the British bargaining position getting more extreme by the day, no one else was even thinking of hiring anyone English. When I had accepted the assignment, I had thought no more than six months into the future. But I had never dreamed that Ralf and I would become entangled in the way that we had, in a way that made me want much, much more of a future with him.

"We should talk about this," he said, in a tone that made it very clear that we would talk about it no further that night.

I was working from home the next day, holed up in my cosy room at the back of the apartment, while a storm raged about the block of flats, blown in off the river. There was nothing nicer on a miserable, black day like this, than being holed up in my room, wearing comfy clothes, and drinking a nice hot pot of tea. But as I worked, writing and rewriting the interview that was meant to form the last chapter, an email dropped in my inbox.

Ralf, of course. 'We do need to talk about your future at some point. I may be able to extend your contract with Klingklang. I have come to realise over the past few months that I do need a secretary, or an assistant of sorts. But of course I would need to know if you were amenable to such a thing. Obviously, I wish you to continue to remain in Germany, to remain with Klingklang, but I do not want to force my wishes onto you. Would it be possible to talk about this?'

The email sat like lead, unanswered in the bottom of my inbox, snatching all of my concentration away from me. I didn't know how to answer that. What was he offering? Would he be paying me to be his secretary, or to be his mistress? I wasn't sure how I felt about either. I had given up a lucrative career as a computer programmer because I had spied a chance to become a professional _writer_. To be demoted to secretary, well, that was almost an insult. I did know that Kraftwerk would be touring again in the coming year. Would he intend me to go, as his "PA" or however he wanted to call it? Was I prepared to go through that charade, while pretending I didn't also share his bed? The whole thing just irked me in a way I didn't want to have to reply to.

I turned off the smartphone and decided to let it just sit for a while, thinking through all of the options. Turning back to my laptop, I tried to work, but I just could not maintain focus, flicking through Twitter, Tumblr, the Guardian site, and my old Yahoo mail account, one after another, like a captive animal circling its cage.

Hang on, what was that? An email had dropped into my Yahoo inbox while I was virtually pacing. An email entitled ZEITPUNKT in all caps, from a 'Katrin Hütter'. I stared at my inbox. Now, I was almost certain that I had not given my email address to Katrin. I hadn't given her my Tumblr, my Twitter, my phone number, nothing. How on earth had she got my email? I very specifically had not published it anywhere on my web presence. Sure, Katrin had been able to locate This Band Could Be Your Life by Googling, which might have led to my old Tumblr, but finding my personal email address? That was another story. Even Ralf's lawyers hadn't found my email address without asking Hans. I felt more than a little odd, even as I opened the email and read the short and really quite professional request to see if maybe I could read the review she had posted in the linked Tumblr, and let her know what I thought. That was it. Just a brief, polite request, and the link to her blog. So why did it feel so weird?

Then again, maybe Ralf had given it to her. But to be honest, Ralf was such a stickler for privacy that I was almost certain he would have asked me before passing my details on to anyone, even his daughter. And anyway, he would almost certainly have given his daughter the Klingklang account that he used to email me every day, rather than an old personal account I barely checked.

I opened up the blog, and decided to at least read it before leaping to any more conclusions. After all, the alternative was having a discussion with her father that I really did not want to face.

It was a review, in English, of a local punk gig in Krefeld, accompanied by Instagram-y filtered snapshots of the bands and some of the audience. The first thing that was clear, was that her written English was a great deal better than her spoken English. As I suspected, the problem was not her intelligence, but her confidence, when she spoke aloud. The second thing that was clear was that she wrote well: she knew how to tell a story, and she had a very perceptive eye for detail. But the third thing that was clear was that she was trying very hard to write like someone else. A lot of the text was written in an arch, ironic, girly-blog tone, that I had seen everywhere from Rookie to The Toast. But more annoyingly, in other patches, she was trying very hard to ape _me_. Sure, it was flattering seeing her describe her friend's punk band using terms I had written in This Band Could Be Your Life. But it was also more than slightly irritating to see her lifting entire phrases wholesale. 'One does not choose one's favourite band member; one's favourite band member chooses you.' That was my catchphrase, and the result of years of observation of fandoms, since before she was even born.

But when she stopped posing in the literary equivalent of other people's clothes, occasionally, her own personality did shine through. She had a keen eye, and a delightful turn of phrase, with her father's gift for trans-linguistic puns. She definitely had something, even if at the moment, it was mostly just her ability to convey her excitement and her enthusiasm for this local scene.

I hadn't actually thought how I was going to respond, when I started reading. I suppose, if anything, I had thought I should maybe send over some sugar-coated words of encouragement. But I was caught between conflicting desires to call her out for her liberal borrowings and outright thefts, and to actually sit down and edit her work, telling her which bits were strong, and to concentrate on, and which bits could do with some more tightening and editing and varying her bloody sentence structure. I hit the like button on the post, as much to bookmark it as anything else, then realised that it was the first note the blog had received.

Before I did anything else hasty, I got up and made another cup of tea, pacing about the flat as I waited for the kettle to boil, and as I waited for the tea to steep. A little voice in the back of my head said, don't reply to it. She's enough like her father that to reply to one email would be to invite a host of dozens of emails. Wherever she got the email address, she doesn't know that it works. The best thing to do is just to ignore it, and if you ever run into her again, just claim it was eaten by the spam filter. She's a bright kid; she'll learn how to write in her own voice soon enough.

Unfortunately, there was another voice, a louder voice. I suppose it was related to that same voice that drives overconfident middle-aged men to mansplain. Reading her trying to imitate my writing badly, I wanted to teach her her to do it properly. In my younger days, I had been an editor or a subeditor for younger writers many, many times. I had also been edited, by editors both good and bad; I knew how useful it could be to have someone read your work with a critical eye, and offer suggestions.

I finished making my cup of tea, then carried it through into my room. Turning my phone back on for a moment, I saw there was a text message from Ralf, asking if I'd seen his email, and groaned. No, I was not in the mood to deal with that now. Copying the text from Katrin's blog, I dumped it into a word document, then sat down to edit it.

Trying to keep my suggestions light and positive, I started by praising her work, saying that I was very impressed with her English and her writing skills, and that I thought she clearly already showed signs of being a very talented writer. Then, after buttering her up with that bit of flattery, I started to get down to the nitty-gritty. I rejigged her opening paragraph a bit, showing how it might flow better if she mixed up her sentence structure a bit. I highlighted the bits I thought sounded most like her own natural voice, and added little notes saying things like 'really nicely put!' and 'perfect!' I picked out places where I thought she could use more description, for instance, when she lazily compared one of the band's songs to a My Chemical Romance track, I asked her 'imagine you are trying to describe this song to a space alien who has never heard of MCR, indeed never heard of our earth-punk. What does it sound like? What does it *feel* like?' And then, when I had done my best to be really flattering and helpful and kind, I picked out one of the direct lifts from my piece, and made a slightly snarky little comment to the effect of 'hmmm, now where have I read this before.'

I read it over about 3 or 4 times to make sure I'd got the tone right, supportive and encouraging, but with just the right amount of critical commentary, then emailed it back to her.

Then I picked up my phone and read the two more text messages that had come in from Ralf since I had ignored the first. 'Sorry' I texted back quickly. 'I had headphones on so I didn't hear the phone. I know we have to discuss this, but I don't want to do it by email. Can we talk about it next time I see you?'

This time, it was Ralf who didn't text back for twenty minutes, as if giving me a taste of my own medicine. 'Of course. We can discuss it tomorrow.'


	9. Social Media

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the book nears completion, Ralf and Katrin the writer try to redraw the lines of their professional relationship. And teenage Katrin shows a remarkable facility for sniffing out social media.
> 
> Content note: contains descriptions of life-threatening injury, also hospital scenes.

For the rest of the afternoon, I turned off all of my internet connections, and did my best to sit down and hammer out that last chapter, but the writing was slow and painful, squeezing out only in tiny dollops, like molasses on a cold day. By the time dinner rolled around, I'd added only a few hundred words. I never wrote that slowly; something was wrong.

I think in the bottom of my heart, I knew what was wrong. I didn't want to finish the chapter for the same reason I didn't want to discuss my future at Klingklang with Ralf. It was because it meant fixing down an ending I'd deliberately left nebulous, because I didn't want to deal with even the idea of The Time After This Thing. Finally, I gave up on trying to write, and fell asleep watching incomprehensible German television.

I slept badly, and I was late leaving the house, only to discover that my bicycle had a flat. Desperate for help, I tweeted a photo of the deflated tyre, and about two minutes later, one of my more cycle-obsessed friends in London posted back a link to a blog on how to fix a puncture. I read it twice, looked at the illustrations, then, astonishing even myself with my newfound capabilities, I changed the inner tube, and managed to get it pumped up without destroying anything, but I did not get underway until over an hour past my usual time. Everything seemed to be against me: traffic lights turned red as I approached; I was racing against a tram that was always crossing the lane I needed to be in; there was emergency construction which sent me on a detour all around the outskirts of Meerbusch. By the time I finally got to Klingklang, I was frazzled and cross.

After parking my bike, I made my way inside, but I was greeted immediately by Gudrun. >>He's looking for you<< she warned me, though there could be any doubt about who _he_ was.

>>If you tried _locating_ me, you'd have seen that there were road works in Meerbusch << I said a little testily.

>>Just warning you<< replied Gudrun in a sing-song voice that I was coming to really resent.

I stopped in the kitchen to make a cup of coffee and of tea, but saw that he had taken his sandwich already. That was a bad sign, meaning I was really late, as he didn't usually eat early. But I took a deep breath and climbed the stairs. When I got to the door of his office, I had planned to knock, but the door was open. He had clearly already showered and dressed, and was sitting at his desk, typing away at something, so I tried to slip surreptitiously into the room, placing his coffee silently on his desk.

He looked cross, as he glared at his computer screen, but when he looked up at me, his face was lined with worry. "Where have you been?" he asked, his voice tight.

"My bike had a puncture, so I had to change the tyre; then I got caught in stupid road works outside Meerbusch... I am sorry I am late, but I have had a hell of a morning already."

His face looked even sadder, as guilt added to the mixture of crossness and worry. "You could have texted to let me know. I thought you..." He paused for a moment, to collect himself, and tone down the emotion in his voice. "I thought you were angry with me."

I closed the door, and locked it out of habit, then retreated back to the sofa. "I'm not at all angry with you," I said quietly, and his face grew softer. "It's just a difficult topic, and I don't know how to give you an answer."

Ralf surprised me yet again, by being more perceptive than I gave him credit for. "You don't know what your answer is, or you don't know how to give me an answer you don't think I'll like?"

"My love," I ventured, hoping that the affectionate term would blunt what was to come. "There's no other way to say this, than to just say it, so I'm just going to blurt it out. No matter what little white lies you tell people to cover the facts that I'm your ghostwriter or I'm your mistress, I am not, and I will never be, a secretary. That just isn't who I am, and it is not what I want to do with my life. Not even for you."

"I see," he said, his face still dark.

"Ralf..." I said, my voice pleading.

"I am not angry!" he insisted, but it wasn't anger that I was worried about; it was that returning expression of deep sadness in those dark blue eyes. "Tell me. If money were not a problem, if you had enough to live on, and a roof over your head, what would you do for employment?"

I laughed, as I realised I didn't even have to think about that. "I would carry on much as I am now. I would write. I would write stories."

He smiled wistfully. "You really enjoy writing, don't you. I thought writers were supposed to moan and complain, and go on about how painful it is, and how difficult it is all the time. But you, I think, genuinely love to write."

I shrugged limply. "Do you love to play music?"

He smiled wryly as he looked back at me. "It is no longer a question of loving it or not loving it. It is simply what I do."

"It's not really a question of loving it, for me, either, though obviously, I do enjoy it, and I do derive great pleasure from it. Well, most of the time. It's just that it's harder for me _not_ to write, than it is for me just to write. Stories come to me, the way I imagine ghosts used to come to mediums. They come to me, and they bug me, and they won't leave me alone, until I've written them down. It's more like a compulsion than a job. It's like... when I have the idea of a character, it's like I have another person living inside my head, living through my words, and they just shake me about until I write their story and let them live. When I'm in the grip of a story, that world feels more _real_ to me, than I world I actually live in, and the characters more vivid than my friends. I don't even control them, really. It's not like I'm the author and I can just make the characters do whatever they like. It's like they are _real_ , and they have their own personalities, and their own motives, and they do what they like, not necessarily what I like. They live their lives inside my head, and all I do is write it down."

Ralf's gaze was very curious now. "Is that how you see me, when you write about me?"

"A little, yes."

"How so. In what way." I looked at him very carefully, as his tone was quite flat, but he didn't look at all angry, or even worried any more. If anything, he looked slightly amazed.

"Well, I have had to... well, it's like I've had to build a working model of you, inside my head, in order to write convincingly from your point of view. Like they talk about method acting, well... this is method writing," I confessed, feeling suddenly very exposed before him. In fact, I felt more exposed, confessing all this, than when I lay naked on this sofa, letting him gaze at the object of fascination between my legs.

"So even after you leave me, you will still be carrying around with you, inside your head, a little piece of me?" I couldn't tell if this idea excited him or bothered him.

"Well, a projection of you. An imperfect copy of you. But once I've written the story, once I've written it down, and let the characters live, all the way to the end... they tend to leave me alone. It's like I've given them life, and then, if I've done them justice, they go off and live their own lives, without me. Do I sound completely bonkers to you? Does this sound utterly nuts?"

Ralf laughed, that short breathy laugh of his that I had come to love. "Not at all. Katrin, I'm a songwriter, remember? This is how I feel about my music, you know. You've put into words something that I've felt for a long time. It's something that people have asked me for a long time, and I have never known how to answer. 'Where do the songs come from?' they want to know. But it's something that you have never asked me, I think because you also understand. People say, how did you write this song, or oh, how did you come up with that song. It's not like that. It's almost like the song is out there, and you have to try to... catch it."

"I'm the antenna, catching vibrations," I sung slowly.

"Precisely," agreed Ralf, thumping his desk with the palm of his hand. Whenever he did that, it meant he had been seized by an idea. "And like you described, it will not leave you alone until you do." Then he looked up at me and smiled. "I have had an idea. You are having trouble writing the end of the book, I know that you are, I can see it. So this is how we will end. With this."

"With what?" I asked, not catching him.

"With this, that we have been discussing. We will talk about the Katalog. We will talk about the body of work, and then I will answer this question. Explain the thing that everyone wants to know; where the songs come from. In the way that you have just described to me now."

I laughed and shook my head, but the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. They would not be my words; they would be his. At last, at the end of the book, Ralf would appear. "Alright."

"And Katrin..." he said, catching my attention as I dug my laptop out of my backpack. "I will speak to the publisher. Your name should be on the book. Written by me, with you, or written by me, as told to you... I don't know how they will handle it. But I want your name to be on the book. You are right. You are not a secretary; you are a writer. I owe you that."

Much later that night, I left the studio with mixed feelings. Ralf's announcement that I was to be credited on the book, well, obviously, I took it in the spirit in which it was intended. It was a compliment, an acknowledgement, but also the gift of a lover giving his beloved the thing that meant most in the world to her. And yet, still, it troubled me, for reasons I could not entirely articulate. Obviously, it was something that meant a huge amount to me, the culmination of a lifelong dream: to become the author of a published book. And yet, I was terrified. I liked my anonymity, and I wasn't sure I was ready to give it up. But then again, I had made it clear to Ralf that I would be using my Kate Tremaine pseudonym, not my real name.

However, the other reason for my disquiet was far more earthy. It had been the first evening in months that Ralf and I had spent together, and not had sex. Even during my period, we had found a way to pleasure one another, but tonight, we had been oddly chaste. Now, obviously, I must have known that we could not continue on at the level of sexual excitement we had started. It was natural, for all erotic relationships to cool, and reach a sustainable level of coition. But there was still a voice in my head, the demon beast of insecurity, telling me that this was not a natural levelling off, but the beginning of the end. Ralf had not seemed bothered by its absence; he had still been affectionate with me. We had still kissed goodnight. But my insecurities wailed loudly in my ear.

When I got home, I poured myself a glass of wine, and lay in bed, fiddling with my phone to try to wind down for sleep. But when I opened Tumblr, I felt almost immediately that something was wrong. There were two DMs waiting, from an account I didn't recognise. And as I scrolled down through my activity tab, I realised that this person had left dozens and dozens... maybe nearly a hundred notes on my Tumblr, after following me that morning.

The first of the messages was fairly neutral. 'oh hey! so this is where you blog now. i saw that the account you used for TBCBYL was no longer active.'

The second message sent a chill down my spine. "OMG you totally DO have a crush on my papa! you totally fancy him! that is so embarrassing and so funny. i wonder what he would do if he knew. i bet he would blush bright red. i cannot believe you really want to sod with my father.'

Katrin. Dropping the phone, I put my face into my hands and just cringed. Most of those posts she had liked or commented on were all old, from way before I ever met Ralf. It had just been kidding around; fandom stuff. I had no idea if Jutta had ever read them, back when she still monitored my social media. (To be honest, I had no proof that she did or didn't any more. But my Tumblr these days was boring, just art and architecture stuff, and never anything the slightest bit personal.) But any adult reading it - I hoped - would have known it was pure silliness; a knowing parody of hormonal teenage fandom. But would an actual teenage girl realise that? Clearly not.

The simplest thing to do would have been to just block her. But fear froze my hand, as I realised I was actually terrified of her. Again, it wasn't what I thought she might tell Ralf. Ralf and I had already talked about pop star crushes and actual adult love, and the difference between the two things. But it was always the idea of what she might tell her mother that alarmed me. And that was not a gentle fear, or even a small but troubling one, like eating too much garlic before bed. That was a stark terror, that the things keeping my life liveable would be ripped away from me, into the light.

I took a deep breath, and thought carefully of how to respond. But then curiosity got the better of me, and I clicked through to look at her personal Tumblr. It was very obviously a teenager's blog. There were loads of photos of bands she loved, GIF sets of television programmes, photos of models wearing outfits she liked, odd memes I couldn't make head or tail of, all mixed in with weird, slangy German chats with people who seemed to be Gymnasium friends of hers. It looked like any other German teenager's blog; I don't know what else I expected. And yet I felt creepy as hell looking at it. I felt a very definite line that I was crossing, and I had to click the back button after only a few pages. Nothing about this situation was right. And yet, I couldn't just ignore that message.

'Katrin' I wrote. I wanted to start out by saying, 'OK, I see you've found my blog, but really, the polite thing would have been to ask before you followed me... 'but that just wasn't how Tumblr worked. In fact, to a teenager, it would seen weird and creepy and square to even say something. Start over.

'Hi Katrin. Thanks for the comments, but as you can probably see from the dates, I'm not really a heavy user of Tumblr any more. The blog posts that you refer to are actually very old, they are from well before I even met, let alone started working for your father. To answer the question you didn't ask, yes, I used to have quite a bit of a pop star crush on Ralf Hütter, or at least the idea of him. I know that you are a very clever young woman, and that you are starting to understand the media, and how it works. How the media image of a Pop Star, say Ralf Hütter, is very different from the human being that you know as your Papa, and I know as my boss. Your father and I have actually talked about this, several times. He already knows that I admired, and perhaps yes, even fancied his public image. We talked about it, adult to adult, before he hired me, to make sure that we were able to work together, without it becoming a problem. So to be honest, if you were to tell him that I fancied him, he would tell you that he already knew, and that we had talked it out. Sorry to disappoint you. K'

That quieted my mind enough for me to get to sleep, though my dreams were troubled. Again, I shivered through what was becoming a recurring nightmare. I had been locked out of my flat, and Karlheinz would not let me in, as Ralf had not paid the rent. When I went to my bank, they told me my accounts had been frozen, as Klingklang refused to acknowledge me as an employee. My phone would not work, I could not find my computer. And when I cycled to Klingklang, to demand an explanation from Ralf, my pass no longer worked, and the studio was barricaded against me, as high as a fortress, all the windows and doors barred. I woke late, my alarm blaring in my ear, and felt that I had not rested at all.

I checked my email and my social media at breakfast, needing distraction, but afraid of what I might find. I felt apprehensive, even just opening Tumblr. But the message that greeted me in my DMs chilled me to the bone.

'yeah, we covered all that stuff in our foundation media class. i was only teasing. it is a shame though. if you really fancied my papa, then he and you could get together, and then you would be my step-mama and i wouldn't have to deal with my swine of a mother any more.'

I'm not proud. I reacted without properly thinking it through, out of fright and fear, rather than a rational response. 'Katrin how DARE you say such a thing. It's offensive to your mother, and what's more, it's offensive to me.'

If it were possible to slam an app closed, I would have slammed it, but I settled for angrily closing the tab and going off for a very cross cycle ride, all around the outskirts of Düsseldorf. I would have no more contact with that girl, I told myself. I would block her from my Tumblr and from my email when I got home.

Of course I checked. Social media was like an itch I could never thoroughly scratch. There were two messages when I returned. The first defiant: 'sorry! jesus, i was only joking. calm down, i didn't mean it.' The second more panicked. 'look i said i'm sorry alright. are you really angry at me? please dont be angry with me. people are always taking my jokes badly.'

I decided not to block her just yet, though I needed to distance myself from her, and underline that that was the end of the conversation. 'Don't make jokes like that. I have to work today, so i am not going to be online.'

Shutting the window down, I set to work on the manuscript. Today, the writing came more easily. I slid past the bit that had been giving me so much trouble, then launched into Ralf's idea for ending the book. I did exactly what he asked, taking my way of describing how writing felt to me, and tried to merge it with what he had said about writing music. And to my surprise and joy, it took off. The writing was easy again. I found Ralf's tone, hearing his voice in my head, saying the words in his soft accent, and the words just flew out of me. And when it was over, I knew it was done. Sure, I would have to edit it a bit, refine it and bash it into shape, but that was the ending that the book needed.

I made lunch, then went for a little walk up and down the Rhine promenade to celebrate, but as I turned and came back along Graf-Adolf-Platz, seeing the K21 jogged my memory. I just had to look up and confirm which gallery Kraftwerk's Düsseldorf Katalog shows had been at - if it had been K20, or K21. Ralf had mentioned K21 the previous day, but I was fairly sure that he had misspoken, and he had meant K20. The easiest thing to do would be to drop in and ask someone to confirm.

Yes, an official told me at the information desk, it had been in 2012, and it had been at K20. I thanked her, and when I got in, I opened up the manuscript and searched backwards to make sure I had got it the right way round. Yes, I'd had it right, but I'd left myself a little note saying '***just confirm this!'

Thinking I'd better check what else I'd left notes on to check, I hit Apple-F and searched for '***'. What came up hit me like a slap in the face. '***1996, remember to ask Ralf about meeting Jutta.'

When had I written this? Had it been before or after we'd started sleeping together? Not that it made a difference. Ralf hadn't liked to talk to me about her, even before our affair had tipped over into a sexual liaison. Should that have been some kind of warning? Thinking back, I remembered how intimate our interview sessions had been, even before we started sleeping together, how we sat together, bodies apart, but faces straining together, divided only by the recording device. Then I thought about how we tended to do interviews now, lying curled together, side by side on the black leather sofa, like a kind of pillow talk. And I realised that Ralf would never tell me about meeting Jutta in one of those sessions; any more than I would be able to lie there and listen to him talking about the woman he loved more than me.

But I needed that information for the book. No, wait, be honest with yourself, I told myself. You need that information for yourself. Something in Katrin's awful message that morning had opened some kind of hole in me. It wasn't even that I was the slightest bit desirous of what she had suggested. The idea of being married to Ralf, looking after his child, running his house... it had _horrified_ me. I had felt almost physically revolted by the message. But at the same time, I felt like I needed to know something about this woman whose husband I was secretly sharing.

I opened my inbox, ignoring a chain-mail joke from Henning and a brief message from Müller, and started typing an email to Ralf.

 

Ralf, I've made good progress today. Your idea for the ending was perfect. But there's one more thing I need to cover before I can consider this draft complete. Your marriage. We've always avoided talking about it before, for obvious reasons, I guess. If it's not something you feel you can say to me face to face, then it might be better for you to put in an email? But you do need to write *something* about your wife, or else, to be honest, it's going to look weird and slightly suspicious that the book doesn't mention her. Call or text if you like. I'll be in all evening. K

 

My inbox pinged only moments after I sent it, but it was only Fritz coming back to Henning's bad joke with an even worse one of his own. The email from Müller was more personal. She told me that Graciella had decided to change her flight and stay an extra week. This was really getting serious. What had originally been planned as a weekend trip over Valentine's Day had become a week's holiday when it was booked, and was now a two-week liaison? They were really into each other!

But still no reply from Ralf. Maybe he was out, maybe he was busy, maybe even he was avoiding me. It didn't even cross my mind that he could be writing. The email did not arrive until just after midnight, just as I was preparing to go to bed, and was the longest message I had ever received from him.

 

Katrin. I am sorry; you are right. I shall try to put down my memories as accurately as possible. You may make the decision as to how much to include, and how to present the story. But I feel it is unfair for you not to know.

The band took a break from performing and recording, during 1994. Florian had been very much enjoying fatherhood, even more so, when he was witnessing first-hand his daughter acquiring language, a concept which has always fascinated him. But this meant that he did not have much time for the studio or for his old friend. My last lover, a relationship I had entertained high hopes for, had left me, telling me that she had fallen in love with a close friend and employee of mine. They were married soon after. At a stroke, I had lost both my lover, and one of my few close friends. So I was, I think, quite lonely at that time.

I spent the summer cycling through Eastern Europe, much of which had only recently opened for the first time to Western visitors. Poland and Hungary, of course, we had visited before, on tour during 1981, but I was most curious about East Germany and wished to see the changes there with my own eyes. It was a very hot summer, the third hottest on record at that time, but I very foolishly neglected my health and overdid the cycling, such was my keenness for the road. I was cycling from Leipzig to Dresden on a particularly warm and dry day, when I collapsed. I was airlifted to hospital with a massive coronary. Open-heart surgery saved my life, but I was bed-bound for a number of weeks as I recovered.

Although I could probably have returned to Düsseldorf for my convalescence after about a week, I opened my eyes, upon being raised from the dead for a second time, and saw one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen in my life. I had always been interested in East Germany; there is a family connection on my mother's side. But I will be honest. Part of my fascination was due to the reputation of East German women for being particularly strong and independent and yes, beautiful. And here was this angel, tending to me during the overnight shift.

I admit, I was a very bad patient, and quite deliberately so. I confess that I invented pains and problems and complications, simply to have the pleasure of her company. She pretended not to see through my flimsy excuses, and tended me diligently, though she resisted my attempts at flirtation. For once in my life, I wished to have the advantages of my celebrity, to dazzle a woman... And yet, having grown up in a piously communist household in a country behind the Iron Curtain, she had had almost no exposure to our media, and had absolutely no idea who I was! I was forced to use charm and kindness to woo her. And to make matters worse, she insisted upon a very strict professionalism which would allow no flirtation with her patients.

By the time I was discharged, I was completely in love, and yet believed my case hopeless. And then, the very day of my discharge, she marched up to me and asked me to take her to breakfast when her shift was over. I stayed in Dresden another month, 'convalescing', though this convalescence was not paid for by my health insurance, but by my heart.

For a year, we both made train journeys back and forth. She started to talk about getting a job in Düsseldorf or Köln, to be nearer to me. At this point, I told her there was no need, that I was a wealthy man. And yet, she insisted. Her independence attracted me. She got a job, and moved. When I saw how serious she was acting about me, I realised how serious I was about her. We started to talk about marriage. It was not a quick or impetuous decision. The negotiations took nearly a year. I had never thought of myself as the type of person to get married. Please do not put this in the book, but my parents' marriage was not a happy one. My sister, also, married young, out of duty and obligation, I think, and her marriage was not a happy one, either. She and my niece left her husband and moved back into my parents' home after only a few years of marriage. I did not think my chances of attaining happiness were good. And yet, with Jutta, things felt right.

We married, and started trying for children. I had never thought that I would have children, either. I did not have a very good example of a father, and never thought I would be any good at it. But it was important to my wife. We tried for a number of years. There were fertility treatments. And then there was Katrin. The light of my life. To say fatherhood changed me would be an understatement. I had never been so happy in all my life. My wife and I, together, we had made a small human being! There seemed now, to be a meaning, a purpose to things. It was not always easy. But here, at last, was purpose. I would look into my little daughter's eyes, and know why I was doing the things I did. I did them, for her. I wanted to leave a legacy, for her.

We defied the example of my parents, and my sister. It has been a good marriage. This is not for the book. I don't know why I feel the need to tell you this... well, I suppose yes, I do. There is a great deal of love, and respect, and care in my marriage. My wife remains the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, and when she looks at me with love, I still feel deep pride. But there is not a deep level of understanding between us. She has always taken the opinion that deep understanding is not necessary. Love is necessary, and care is necessary, and commitment is necessary. But she has never expected to understand me, and I have never been expected to understand her. We are very different people. Difference, and that edge of mystery that it brings, is part of the secret of our success.

Only one person has ever _understood_ me, on that deep level, and that was Florian. Yet we understood one another without needing to talk. We understood one another through making music together. I wonder sometimes. For artists, for musicians, for creative people, is the only real path to understanding one another, to create an artistic project together?

It is late. I am tired. I will see you tomorrow. I *need* to see you tomorrow.

Ralf

 

I read it a number of times before I could sleep. I suppose it was an answer of sorts, to a question I had not asked. He was right. Much of it I could not use in the book, though the fact that he had chosen to tell me showed that he had come to trust me implicitly. I would sift carefully through what I could use - and it was rather an adorable meet-cute, the wealthy pop star completely smitten by the noble medic who tended him without knowing who he was - and what I would keep and fold away, deep in my heart, for my own personal knowledge.


	10. Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is A LOT.
> 
> Content warning for discussion of sexual assault involving a child. It involves a conversation not an event; it is not graphic, though it is quite plain in its first-person description of sexual assaults, and the aftermath of dealing with them.
> 
> If you are not OK with reading this, or you feel it may trigger you, it is perfectly possible to skip to the next chapter without missing anything in the way of plot. It is not important for plot; it does however function to explain quite a bit in the way of motivation and character.

I arrived early at Klingklang the next morning, earlier than most of the other staff, though I did my best to avoid Gudrun, who usually arrived first to unlock the building. Climbing the stairs to Ralf's office with a heavy heart, I walked in, sat down on his sofa, and worked on my computer until he arrived.

A few hours later, I heard him come up the stairs, and my heart started to beat a little faster. As he appeared in the door, he didn't see me at first, his chin thrust forward in his distinctive gait as he trudged through into the office, dropping his backpack on his desk. Then he turned, and saw me, and emotion flooded his face as he smiled, pleasure and desire and love that even I could read in his deep blue eyes. Retracing his steps, he went back to the door, closed it, and locked it, then walked forward to sit beside me on the sofa. I put my laptop aside, on the low table, then turned towards him, touching his face gently.

There were no words. He kissed me forcefully, maybe even a little roughly, and suddenly he was on top of me. I grappled with his clothes, and then abruptly he was inside me. It was almost painful, without any kind of foreplay, but the intensity of his need reassured me. No, this had not cooled in the slightest. He came quickly, panting my name in my ear, then tried to attend to my pleasure.

"I wish you would let me kiss you down there," he sighed, as he rolled off me, trying to get his hand between my legs, without letting go of our embrace.

"I don't like it," I insisted, pushing his hand into place, and guiding him in his strokes. "Just keep doing what you're doing...  yes, that's the right spot..." His sense of rhythm was so perfect, I just showed him the beat I needed and he would bring me off, feeling relief and pleasure flooding across my body again.

But as we lay afterwards, with him holding me, he brushed his lips across my face, and tried again. "But why don't you like it? Is it too intense for you? I could be as gentle as you like. I could do that same thing I do with my finger, just as easily with my tongue... and I would love to taste you."

I felt myself tensing in his grip, and looked away from him. "Look, it's a long story, and I don't really want to get into it."

Touching the side of my face gently, he pulled my gaze back to him, though I didn't want to look into his eyes. "We are not short of time. Why don't you tell me? You know everything there is to know about me, and yet you never tell me anything about you. Do you not trust me? Because I trust you implicitly. Did what I sent you last night not convince you, of how much I trust you?"

I lay back, staring up at the ceiling, trying to will myself out of my own body as I weighed up the pros and cons of telling him. After everything, it was true; I did now trust him. And he had, now, told me everything that I had asked. But this was not a story I had ever felt comfortable telling anyone. I tried my voice, but my tongue felt dry. I licked my lips, swallowed nervously, then tried to force the words up and out of my throat.

"When I was young, well, in my late teens or so. I was not yet driving, so I was under 18, though I did not really look like a child any more. About Katrin's age, I think" I added with a shiver. "I spent the day sketching in a park downtown. A man came up to me and started to talking to me. I showed him my sketches, he showed me some photos he had in a small album. He was from Italy, and I think this created a false bond between us, this idea that we were both Europeans in America, even though he was about twice my age. He had a car and offered to drive me home, which I accepted, as my family home was very far from the centre of town, and it saved me having to phone my parents for a lift. We exchanged phone numbers; I thought it was an innocent friendship. I might have looked physically quite adult, but I was still a child, still very naive and trusting. It never occurred to me that he might have had other designs, and even if it had, I was too afraid not to comply with what people, especially adults, asked of me. Do you understand?"

Ralf shrugged as he started to stroke my hair. "I was not that way myself, but I suppose I am a man, not a girl. I see Katrin, and I see that things are different for her. She is so trusting, and in ways I think she is so bold - or foolhardy - because she is so naive, we have to teach her not to be so easily led. To teach her that other people may have motives she does not yet understand. I did not know how to do this, without making her suspicious. But her mother tries. What happened, with this man?"

"What do you think? Of course he came back, one afternoon. My mother was out, but my father was in the house. We went and sat in the parlour. I thought it would just be a friendly visit. He tried to kiss me, and put his hands on me. I didn't know what to do. I didn't want it, and kept pushing him off, but I didn't know how to tell him to stop in a way that would make him comply, without making him angry. I just went rigid with fear, because on the other side of that closed door was my father, and I was terrified my father would discover us, and blame _me_ for what was happening."

"Why would he blame you?"

"I had allowed myself to be picked up by this man, by speaking to him in the first place. I had let this man into the house. And honestly, Ralf, I thought I was at fault. I had no idea why this was happening. I kept asking him not to do these things, but I was afraid to raise my voice, for fear my father would hear. The man sank down to his knees as I sat frozen on the sofa, and he lifted my skirt, pulled aside my knickers - they were a duck egg shade of blue, with a fabric flower sewn on them. They were a child's knickers, not a woman's. He pulled them aside, and he put his mouth on me. I hated it. It felt disgusting. I was so afraid. I did not know if he was going to bite me, or what he was doing. It did not feel sexual, or erotic at all. It felt like an attack, like a violation. I lay like a board, trying to keep it all in, and then I started to cry. It was only after I started actually crying that he got up and left. I felt too shocked and too violated to do anything." My voice gave out. I couldn't believe I had made it this far. I had never told this story to anyone before. But even reliving the memory, I noticed that it was impossible for me to remember what it _felt_ like to be sitting on the sofa, as it happened. Retrieving the memory, I saw it as if I were standing at the door to the room, a stranger watching my own body, rigid on the couch, watching this awful thing happening to a teenage girl.

Ralf's face had changed. He looked shocked, perhaps even angry, the sort of outrage of a man who had never realised before what sort of things were done to young girls. For a moment, I was terrified that he was going to turn away, was going to reject me in some way, tell me that what had happened was my fault. But he said nothing, he just stared at me, his face very grave, and continued to stroke my hair. "What happened? You were clearly a child. What that man did was rape. Even I can see that, and I am an old man. Did you tell the police, did you tell..."

I shook my head. "Nothing. Nothing happened. I told no one. The next time he rang on the phone, asking if he could see me, I told him I never wanted to see him again. He pretended he didn't understand, said, oh his English wasn't very good, could he come round so I could explain it to him. I told him his English was fine, except for the word 'no' and put the phone down. I never saw him again. But I have never been able to stand anyone putting their mouth on me, ever. I have tried. I have lain there, putting up with it, to please lovers who thought they were doing me a favour. But all I can do is lie there, stiff as a board, staring up at the ceiling and trying to escape from my own body."

"Ssshh, ssshhhh," said Ralf, kissing the side of my face gently. "I did not know. I will never ask you again. Were you...? Well. You were so young. Were you a virgin, when it happened?"

I shook my head slowly. "No. I didn't really have much of the way in choice, when it came to... virginity. Well, there was a boy at summer camp, when I was 13."

"13?" He looked astonished.

"Well, he was 15. And I say not much in the way of choice... Technically, I did not say no. I may even have gone off with him willingly. I simply had no idea what he wanted to do. I was 13! My idea of sex came from, you know... the saucy bits of James Bond films. I was shocked and surprised when he went from lying on top of me and cuddling, to suddenly pushing this _thing_ between my legs. It hurt, terribly. I had not expected it to hurt. I knew so little, I was just embarrassed by my ignorance, and too shocked to think to ask him to stop. I did not even know that you were allowed to say no to men, when they attempted to do these things. Or, rather, my experience turned out to be, that even if you said no, it happened anyway. They never asked, they just did. You would be sitting in a cinema, watching a film, and the man sitting next to you would just seize your hand, and bring it down on this hot little worm in his lap."

"That happens? _Really_?" his voice was outraged.

"That happened to me when I was maybe... 16?" I knew it was a lot, but it was like, once I started talking about it, I couldn't stop. "It was after the Italian man, so... I feel like I should have known by then, should have been wiser to it. But I never could get used to how it just... kept _happening_ at me."

" _At_ you?" he asked carefully, as if he was worried he had misunderstood the odd English grammar.

"Yes, _at_ me. That's what it felt like. I wasn't asking for this stuff. I wasn't doing anything to encourage it, except... just existing."

Ralf stared at me as if seeing me for the very first time. "I am surprised that you are... able to have sex with anyone at all, considering all of this. Was this why it was... ten years, before me?"

I vaguely shrug-nodded. "I used to have to get drunk, to sleep with people. But then I stopped drinking. Once I stopped drinking, I stopped being able to overcome the fear and revulsion at my own body."

"Your _own_ body?" said Ralf, and his surprise was a shock to me. "Men force this on you, and your revulsion is at your own body, not theirs?"

I shrugged again, grasping inarticulately for a way to explain. "It was something that was done to my body. Sex, well... what I wanted was something that happened in other people's bodies. It's easier to touch than to be touched. To keep it over there, away from my body. But it takes Dutch Courage to be able to reach out and touch... and it takes anaesthetisation to stand to be touched."

"This is why you only touched me, for the first time, when you were drunk, that night in Chile. And here, I just thought you had a drinking problem. I had no idea why you _needed_ to be drunk. I have wondered about that night, for a long time. I told myself you had only done it because you were drunk, that you did not really mean it. I had no idea..."

"I wanted you so badly, but I was so scared," I confessed.

"I am not surprised you were afraid. So much about you... well, so much of your writing makes sense to me now. Why you wrote so much about consent, with regards to our lyrics... that whole thing about 'doch' and maybe. I thought it was a strange angle to take, but a new and unique and interesting one. But now I understand _why_..."

We shifted slightly on the sofa. The seat wasn't quite wide enough for both of us to lie together unless we spooned, but he seemed to want to look into my face, so he lay back and gently pulled me up onto his chest. It was funny the way that our two old, chubby, imperfect bodies accommodated one another. His belly was firm, and slightly hard, and stuck out before him like the prow of a ship, even when he was lying down. My body fat was softer, more fluid, flowing around him, though he would sometimes laugh and pull one of my breasts out and onto his chest from where it had got stuck between us. This was what he meant, by soft, flexible, pliant, the words he loved to use to describe my flesh and how it flowed around his.

"I have to confess, I mean, I thought it was obvious from what I wrote, that this was one of the things that I found most appealing about those old videos, about your image. That you were very still, and receptive, and slightly passive."

"What, when we were playing at being robots?" he laughed slightly, running his fingers through my hair over and over.  "That you wanted to program us to do what you wanted, rather than to force our desires onto you?"

"Genau," I murmured into his pale, freckled shoulder. "That is exactly it."

"May I ask you a question, my love?" He sounded almost nervous to broach it.

"Yes. You can ask me anything." I realised, in this new, intimate mood, that I would actually answer him anything.

"How did you... Getting over that experience, must have... And yet, you seem to enjoy sex with me, unless you are an accomplished actress. How did you learn to even enjoy sex at all, after something like that?"

"It took a woman to teach me, for the first time, that there could be pleasure in sex. That there could be reciprocity and desire and even joy."

"Ah," said Ralf thoughtfully. "So this is why you insist so vociferously to Müller, when you two are teasing one another, that you are bisexual. This is what this means to you."

I winced, wondering what else he had heard Müller and I teasing each other about. "I did not realise you knew that."

"There are no secrets in Klingklang," said Ralf, then quickly corrected himself, as if realising what he had just said. "Well, not from me."

I looked at him carefully, and thought 'you don't know the half of it', but then pushed that thought out of my mind with the careful denial I approached our entire affair.

Ralf must have misunderstood the strange expression on my face, because he corrected himself again. "Well, I don't want you to keep secrets from me. I don't want you to feel you _have_ to keep secrets from me. I am your lover. I'm not jealous of this woman, this former lover of yours, I just want to know how she... well, how she made it good for you again."

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. "Before her, and even sometimes after her, sex was only ever something that was done to me. She made me understand that sex could be something that I enjoyed, the way it felt in my own body, rather than what was done to me. So yes, if you want to know why I am fucked up, about sex, and about love, yes, this is why. It's not just the Asperger's, though obviously that doesn't help, in terms of not being able to understand or predict people's motives, regarding their intentions towards me. Sex as a thing for me to enjoy, not as a thing that is done to me."

He stroked my face, and kissed the side of my cheek. "I'm sorry to bring up these old memories. I'm only asking, because I want to know how to make this better for you. To make this fear go away."

"You can't. That's why I don't tell people. It's a hell of a thing to lay on someone. It's not that I don't trust you. It's the realisation that this knowledge... well, it changes people's attitudes towards me. I do enjoy sex with you, Ralfi, I enjoy fucking you, I enjoy taking you in my mouth, like I enjoy just being with you, and holding you, and all of it. But you have to just accept, that there are certain things I will not do, and just accept that that isn't going to change, rather than pushing me to do it."

"I am sorry," he said, then added very quickly. "Well, no, I am not sorry I asked, because I am relieved that I know now. But I am sorry that I did anything to make you feel that I was pushing you into something you didn't want."

I didn't know what to say. I just squeezed him very hard, feeling like I was going to cry. Not because I was upset or disturbed by the painful memories we had been discussing, but cry with relief because this was a man who seemed to understand. We lay in silence for a few minutes, just listening to one another's heartbeats, before he spoke again.

"I wish..." He let out his breath in a slow whistle. "No, this is not appropriate."

"No, what is it. Tell me," I urged, kissing the moles on his neck gently, one after another.

"God in heaven, you make me afraid for Katrin. She is like you were, a combination of trusting and naive, and not as bold as she makes herself out to be, with the punk rock clothes and all. She has this boyfriend, you have met him. Wolfie is a bit of a shy mouse, as you know, and I think he would be afraid to do anything she didn't specifically ask him to do. But still, I worry for her. Not Wolfie, but that crowd that he runs with. I tell her to watch out. Her mother tries to impress upon her, the dangers, of being an impressionable young woman, around older musicians, especially when there is alcohol about. We tried to raise her to be sensible about alcohol, but I don't drink. And she won't listen to her mother. I wish someone would talk to her, seriously, about the things that can happen to her, if she is too trusting. There have already been... well. How to put it. Some close calls. Troubling entanglements. Enough to make me worry for her. Maybe you could talk to her... she already trusts you."

I froze in his arms, at the thought of Katrin. "What on earth makes you think she'll listen to me, if she doesn't listen to her parents?" I said cagily.

Ralf laughed indulgently. "She is already very impressed with you, you know. She has talked about you constantly since she met you. I believe you said some nice things about a piece of her writing? She has not stopped talking about it since. So yes, I think if you speak to her, she will very much listen."

"She talks about me," I repeated numbly, feeling very weird.

"Yes, my wife jokes that she has a bit of a crush on you. She says the whole family suffers from the English Crush." He was laughing as he started to say this, then fell quickly silent as if realising he was holding this crush, half naked, in his arms. It was so odd to hear him speak of his wife's referring to me as his 'crush' that I wondered how else they talked about me.

But I felt on edge now, in a way that I had previously felt completely comfortable, even as we were discussing the most sensitive parts of my life. And I wasn't sure if it was the thought of his wife, or of Katrin, that had done it.

"Does your wife know that I am your mistress?" I blurted out, not even knowing what devil had got into me, to ask.

"No, of course not."

"Do you think she suspects?"

"She does not want to," said Ralf, with an air of finality. "To her, understanding is not important. Commitment, and care and respect are important. She does not want to understand."

It was an odd thing to say, and did not answer my question. But that was as far as he would reply. He pulled me close one more time, and kissed the top of my head, holding his cheek against me, much like that day he had taught me to ride a bike. But then he shifted out from under me, and sat up, picking his clothes off the floor.

"Come. Let us take a shower. We have much work to do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a strong believer in writing-as-therapy. All of the assaults described in this chapter actually happened to the author, at the ages they happened to writer-Katrin.
> 
> One of the biggest reasons that I got involved with the original stalker (on whom the events in this story were very loosely based), was because we had been discussing writing-as-therapy as a way of coping with rape. I was very honest about my own status as a survivor, and about how that informed the way that I wrote realistically about quite dark topics in fan fiction. They told me that they were a survivor of rape, after I talked about my own experiences. I encouraged them to write as a way of working through it.
> 
> And this was the biggest lie that they attempted to propagate about me, after I ended the association: that I somehow manipulated or tricked them into writing about rape, and in the process, they erased my own status of survivor. So this is *my* story. This is what happened to me. On two levels. My survivor experiences which were erased in their fantastical lies; as well as the unfolding of an obsession gone bad.
> 
> Thanks for reading.


	11. Fiction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Teen-Katrin discovers a rather intimate part of Writer-Katrin's online presence. And Writer-Katrin, with Ralf's words still echoing in her head, tries to teach her about writing.

When I woke up the next morning, I felt disinclined to work. I ate breakfast, and had my usual morning cycle ride about the city, but I found I could not settle. I opened up the manuscript to start editing from the beginning, but I could not seem to concentrate, continually getting up and going in the kitchen to make a cup of tea. These words had been written so long ago, they seemed as if they had been written by a stranger. Or, rather, _about_ a stranger, for these early chapters had been written before Ralf and I had become lovers, before I had really got to know him. Even starting to edit it felt daunting.

I cycled through my daily websites like I was pacing, flicking from Twitter to The Guardian to a messageboard, and finally on to Tumblr. Tumblr, I had been weirdly avoiding for a bit, as I was feeling more than a little exposed there, knowing that Katrin was following me. But when I logged on, I saw that it was quiet. She hadn't sent me any more messages; in fact she hadn't even liked any more of my posts, though these had become infrequent now that I had left it to run off a queue, and only posted twice a day. But Tumblr, at least, provided some distraction as I liked and reblogged a couple of funny memes which caught my attention, then set about refilling my queue.

But when I went back to my dashboard, I saw that I had suddenly picked up a whole host of notes. Well, that wasn't unexpected, as my friends would usually give me a few likes if I reappeared after any small hiatus. But then I went to my activity page. Yes, a couple of them were from my long-term followers, but the vast bulk of them were from Katrin. And it wasn't just the new posts that she was liking. It was almost as if she were going back through the last few days of my queued posts since I'd last spoken to her. Feeling slightly guilty, I took that as a plea for attention, and went over to check my email. Sure enough, there was a new missive from Katrin.

'i've done some more writing, as you asked. i am trying to write everyday but my swine of a mother always bothers me, wants to know if i have done my homework, if i have done my chores. i don't understand why she is such a bitch to me. why can't she be encouraging towards my writing, like you are? all she does is fight. it's not fair. anyway. i have done some more writing for you. let me know what you are thinking of it. katrin'

When I loaded Zeitpunkt, there was a new review. I sat down to read, even though I was not familiar with the band whose record she reviewed, a German punk band called Durchaus! with an exclamation point and all. But the review was actually quite cleverly done, because although it was technically a greatest hits album, Katrin used it to talk about two of the band's concerts which she had herself witnessed. She started comparing their previous line-up where the band's singer had vied for attention with their charismatic but unpredictable bass-player; and a later incarnation, where he had been replaced by two studio warhorses who were technically more competent, but nowhere near as lively. Even without knowing a note of the band's music, I got a real sense of the appeal that this sort of Richey Manic character had added to their performances. It was a quirky but inspired piece of work, though a little rough around the edges and abrupt in its transitions, but it showed genuine promise. But as soon as I hit like on the blog post, a message appeared in my DMs. Katrin, of course, all full of excitement to know what I had thought of her blog.

Remembering that Ralf had told me how deeply affected she had been by my previous praise, I took a deep breath before replying, trying to think how to handle this. Sure, it was flattering that she was obviously so awestruck, even though I found her attention slightly perplexing. On one hand, I obviously did want to be nice and encouraging, and try to help her, as a fledgling writer, especially as she didn't seem to be getting much encouragement from her parents. But on the other hand, just knowing that she was Ralf's daughter made me nervous. I felt like a single wrong word to her could smash up this precarious situation that Ralf and Jutta and I danced around. And also, to be honest, I was more than a little overwhelmed, myself, at being the focus of her hero-worship. Because honestly, I didn't feel like I'd done anything to deserve it, apart from being incredibly lucky enough to land this weird, brief career as a music writer.

So I sat down, re-read her piece, and opened up an email. Again, I started off by complimenting the bits I thought were strongest, before following up with some more critical comments as to how to make it better. 

'Dear Katrin, your latest blog is very good. I'm very impressed with the quality of your writing, and the novel approach you have taken to this review. You make the music come alive, even for someone like me who has never heard this band. I really get the sense of the emotions you feel for this music, why it is important to you. Writing is often a very good way of expressing things about *yourself*, as well as expressing things about music. It's a very good and very powerful thing, to use writing to work through bad feelings as well as good ones. You know, I think all teenage girls go through a phrase where they hate their swine of a mother, this is perfectly natural. I hated my mother when I was your age, and I think she resented me a little, too, but we both grew out of it, and now we are best of friends. I think you will come to find peace with your mother, too. Anyway, I have only a few suggested edits for you, which I will attach. Tschüss! Kate'

I read it two or three times, to make sure I'd sugar-coated my edits enough, then hit send, wondering if that would end the conversation, or if she would be just like her father, and eat up my time for the rest of the afternoon. But still, mucking about on Tumblr for a while did seem more appealing at that moment, than facing up to that reproachful lump of the first draft I needed to start whipping into shape.

Sure enough, a DM appeared on Tumblr, only a few minutes later. However, it seemed like asking for feedback on the review had been only a pretext.

'can i ask you a question?'

'You can ask. That does not mean I will necessarily answer.'

'i just don't want you to be mad at me for asking, ok?'

'That depends on what it is, Katrin.'

'so i've been reading some of your fics'

I stared at the laptop screen, feeling an awful queasy sensation in the bottom of my stomach. There was no doubt in my mind, which fiction she was referring to. If her father had found it just by looking at my Tumblr, well, his daughter was far more thorough in her internet-creeping. But as I remained silent, staring at the screen in horror, she had started typing again, as another message dropped into my inbox below the first.

'no! don't be angry with me. it's really good. that's what i wanted to ask you about.'

I didn't know how else to put it, so I decided on the truth. 'I have to admit, I feel really uncomfortable with the idea of you reading it.' 

'don't worry i didn't read the stuff about papa. that would be really weird. i read the series about blur first. i love blur. song 2 is one of the all-time punk anthems. i prefer graham to alex, but i got really hooked on reading it. and trying to work out who all the fake bands were. mirage is oasis, yes? but the rocket pops, who were they. i thought they might be the strokes but then i thought they might be nirvana. who were they based on?'

Reading her message again and again, I wrestled with myself. I had to admit; it was the one subject on which I was absolutely susceptible to flattery. I could never resist when people wanted to enter into these little universes that I had created, and ask questions about them, and engage with the characters they found there. That was absolutely my vulnerable spot. Even as I knew I would regret this, I found myself hitting reply.

'Several different bands went into making the Rocket Pops. A bit of Nirvana and STP, a poster of an obscure power pop band called Material Issue, a bit of the Strokes, and a lot of musicians I actually knew back in NYC. Blur, though, were one of those bands I liked a lot better before I actually spent any time around them. Never meet your idols, Katrin.'

'you hung out with blur? wow. ok, i'm impressed. but i guess i know what you mean. when i was younger, i met a few rock stars because of my papa. people who were really famous. but they never seemed cool to me. my papa has a strange effect on people sometimes. people act really weird around him. so. when i was a little girl, we went on tour with radiohead. i remember some of them were really nice. but thom yorke was a little rude. so that was strange to see him turn up in the story. i still kind of want to hit kate gordon for going off and fucking him, because she and damien were so good together. god your stories are so addictive, even when i don't like the characters. i might actually go and read your radiohead stories now.'

I found myself oddly charmed by her response. It was not something I'd ever considered before, and now I found myself wondering about her, trying to imagine what it must have been like to grow up on tour with Kraftwerk. Having seen myself how strangely people acted towards Ralf at their aftershows, I found myself wondering what Katrin might have seen. I thought about it for a minute, then hit reply.

'Well, I always try to make my stories true to life, even when people are placed in the most bizarre and extreme situations. I always want their reactions to be natural, even when their predicaments are pure fantasy. I mean, don't some of your friends make really poor dating choices? Because they're blinded by someone's physical attractiveness? Or because they're really impressed by someone, and their talent?'

'yeah, i guess they do. like the singer in wolfie's band, he only ever dates these complete idiots. barbie dolls who don't even like music. then he wonders why it does not work out. we try to tell him but he will not listen. just like kate's band tried to warn her about thom but she did not listen. but that is what is so addictive about your stories. i feel like i know these people, like they become my friends. i *know* kate and beth and emma and maddie. i feel almost as if i am living inside their heads as they are living these ridiculous lives. how do you make it so *convincing*?'

I laughed to myself, feeling both highly flattered by her gushing praise, and yet at the same time, oddly sucked in, almost like she deliberately knew the kinds of things to say to a writer to get them to respond. And yet, respond I did, because it was intoxicating, like catnip, to be flattered, and then asked for writing advice. Of course I was going to respond to that. What person who considered themselves a writer wouldn't be tempted?

'It's observation, Katrin, that is the key. Observation of your friends and the people you know, the poor choices people make, but also the justifications that they use, to themselves and others. And internal observation. It sounds stupid, but to write, you have to be aware of your own feelings, and what they really *feel* like. And figure out ways to describe those feelings without resorting to cliche. Never write something dumb like 'I trembled with happiness'. Think about your own life, your own experiences, what it feels like to be so happy that you can physically feel it, so excited that you feel like a bottle of fizzy pop that has been shaken up, the bubbles all fizzing up to your head until you explode in great peals of nervous giggling. If your character needs to be sad, or jealous, or angry, think about a time that you felt like that, what the other person said, what you felt, what you said. Funnily enough, the more of your own life and your own emotions you can mine for a story, the more genuine and *true* it will read to other people.'

'what, even crazy autistic emotions that don't make sense to anyone else, especially your parents.'

I smiled wryly, remembering what it had been to feel like that. 'Write the feelings out on paper, Katrin, and you will be surprised to find out that everybody feels the same emotions, autistic or not. We might process them differently, or interpret them differently, but everybody feels them the same.'

'but what about those crazy fantasies you write about, like sleeping with pop stars, or running away to california with blur, or crashing out on drugs, or... god the awful crazy stuff that thom did to kate in that story? you lived all that?'

'No, obviously not. But the fantasy of sleeping with a pop star... you can take the same emotions you experienced when falling in love with someone you know who made you feel all fluttery and special. Like, how did you feel when you found out Wolfie liked you? How did that feel?'

'ha! he never told me he liked me or anything. i just kept telling him repeatedly that he should go out with me until he decided it was less hassle to just go out with me than for me to bug him about it all the time.'

I was very glad that we were talking over Tumblr, and not in person, because the scene was so easy to imagine that I actually laughed aloud, then held my hand over my mouth to stifle the mirth before typing again.

'Well, you take experiences like that, and you put them in your fiction. Not just the good stuff, but the bad stuff, too. In fact, writing is a really really good way to kind of emotionally process the things that you've been through. It's a safe way to deal with these things, to work through them, kind of like therapy. That awful Thom, whom you hate so much, he was based on an actual boyfriend I once had, who was clingy and controlling and became very abusive and awful to me. It didn't go quite to the extremes that Kate and Thom did, because I was sensible enough to get out when I realised what was happening. But that story was a way of not just dealing with it, but also trying to work out what would have happened if I had stayed with this guy. It would have been a disaster. That stuff didn't happen, it didn't go that far, but the emotions behind writing it were very real. Does that make sense?'

She was quite some time replying, and I wasn't sure if she was just thinking, or if I'd gone too far or revealed too much, or even if she'd been called away from the computer. I got up and went to the kitchen to make a cup of tea, and when I came back there was another message.

'i think so. and i've just realised something. i've read so many bad, shitty mcr stories on the internet. stuff that was just completely unbelievable. out of character. over the top. it made no sense at the time; i didn't understand why people would write those things. so the stuff in those stories, it wasn't actually about gerard way at all. it was about stuff that they were dealing with.'

'It seems very likely. That's... what writing is for.'

'i never thought about it like that.' she responded, followed a few seconds later by another message. 'do u think i should try to write like that.'

I thought about what her father and I had talked about, a few days earlier. There was a part of me that really wanted to reach out to her, to befriend her. To teach her skills that the rest of the world wasn't going to teach her, that I wished someone had taught me. And foolishly, selfishly, blindly, not thinking about what I was doing, I encouraged her.

'You could give it a try. It's a good way of working through stuff. Think about the bad experiences in your life, the stuff you don't like to talk about, and write your way through it.'

'ok' came back the single word.

'Anyway, I really do have to work now, but it was good chatting with you. Keep writing, OK? K'

Smiling to myself, I forced myself to close Tumblr and minimise the internet browser. Pontificating about writing, good god, someone stop me. But in a weird way, that had been exactly what I needed as incitement to get back to work. Just hearing the praise, that someone enjoyed my writing, that spurred me to write more. I remembered what she had told me earlier, about reading This Band Could Be Your Life, about how it had helped explain the mystifying adoration that people had for this institution that she had grown up inside.


	12. Weird Things Germans Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Social media exacerbates the growing tensions between junge Katrin and alte Katrin, as the former's sense of boundaries goes from poor, to non-existent, and the latter finds herself confronting some very awkward emotions.

I had thought that a good, long heart to heart like that with Katrin might have made her calm down and relax a bit, when it came to social media. But if anything, it seemed to make her ramp up her attentions. I realised that it was entirely possible she had been on her best behaviour before, and now she believed us to be friends, any sense of boundaries she had had evaporated.

The only thing that made me feel slightly less awkward was the realisation that I did not appear to be the only person she acted this way towards. I couldn't even follow her actual Tumblr, it was just such a blur of steady reblogs and signal boosts and anonymous asks all flying back and forth at speed. She was incapable of running a queue, it seemed. If she was online, she would just chuck dozens of posts across her dashboard in quick succession. I supposed that was just what teenagers were like, as it didn't seem to bother any of her friends. Because my god, the Emo fandom on Tumblr was cut-throat. The volume at which it moved, with shit-posts and call-outs flying back and forth between them, as Katrin or one of her mates bitched about some other user they did not consider sufficiently _punk_ , it made my head spin. It made me feel about a million years old, as I just could not handle the volume of these kids and their fast currents of information.

And yes, I did check her Tumblr occasionally, with a guilty conscience, partly because I just wanted to make sure that she was OK. Ralf's words echoed in my head, about wishing someone would keep an eye on her. And one thing that came across quite strongly through her personal Tumblr was that she, like many teenagers, was beset by sudden mood swings, and was frequently quite upset about one thing or another. She wrote often that she was depressed, or troubled by the things going on in her life, or the world. I could remember, clearly, what it was like to be that age, and feel tossed about by events, and I had to admit that I was, occasionally, well, a little concerned for her, and just checked in to see that she was doing alright.

But also, more selfishly, I checked her blog sometimes because I wanted to check if she was online, to see if it was safe for me to post or like anything without bringing a tidal wave of activity. And yet, despite these conflicting emotions, checking her blog always left me feeling weird, like I was somehow creeping on her family life. Because it was impossible not to remember, every time she posted some "parents just don't understand" blog, that one of her parents was the man I was sleeping with.

One day, while looking at her Tumblr during an idle moment, I liked one of her posts, just once, just trying to show support for a reblog she made about autistic kids who were unable to communicate with their parents. She immediately turned up in my askbox a minute later - not even DMs, but an actual ask, not even anonymous - wondering why I didn't follow her back.

I sputtered for a few minutes, trying to think of an excuse, but decided to just opt for the truth. I couldn't handle the sheer volume of her blog, I told her. I followed maybe 100 Tumblrs at most, art blogs and photo blogs and a few friends who made at most 3 or 4 posts a day, and that was the kind of pace that I, an old person, could handle. If I followed her, my dashboard would become a wall of just Katrin Hütter, and nothing else.

I checked twice to make sure I was answering privately, for I could never quite get the etiquette of answering Asks publicly or privately, and hit send. That was what I hated about Asks; they vanished from your inbox as soon as you'd answered, and you had no record of the conversation. Well; I generally made sure I used email notifications of my asks, so I had a reminder of at least one side of the conversation. At my age, my memory wasn't perfect, and the writer in me always wanted to be able to check my sources to confirm that quotes were what I thought they were, as I knew how memory could twist one's recollections.

Anyway, Katrin seemed to accept that answer. And, in fact, I discovered that that was usually a good way to divert the stream of attention-seeking notes, if I just went onto her blog and pre-emptively liked something. I know it sounds churlish, to complain that someone 'liked' you too much. But there was something that felt just so indiscriminate about the way she seemed to just about every single one of my posts, like I was being hemmed in by a carpetbombing of approbation, rather than any genuine appreciation. And, when scrolling past a dozen of Katrin's notes, I sometimes missed notes, reblogs, even comments from other friends, especially if they had similar arty black and white, kinda goth avatars. (Let's face it, most of my friends had arty, black and white, kinda goth avatars.)

It wasn't ever anything I could deliberately put my finger on and say, there, that one's over the line. I was aware that it would have sounded, well... bonkers to say "Well, the problem is, this kid... she _likes_ me too much." And yet there it was, in the back of my mind, this sense of vague unease. And so, to be honest, I started using Tumblr less and less for my usual lunchbreak time-wasting, because I could pretty much guarantee that if I showed my face there, it would involve the time commitment of a half hour conversation with Katrin. Which was fine every now and then, because honestly, I did enjoy our conversations, but it wasn't something I had time for every single minute of the day.

So instead, I found myself turning more and more to Twitter, especially since Graciella and I started chatting on there. A couple of times, when Müller went into the studio but I was at home, we arranged to meet up for lunch at a "Latin-American" bistro on Bergerstrasse where she befriended the staff and persuaded them to fix her favourite dishes the way she liked them, rather than the way that Germans tended to like them. I liked hanging out with Graciella, partly because she always insisted that we follow our lunch with a quick, fifteen minute sketch on the Rhine Terrace, but mostly because together we indulged our new favourite game of "Germans: What Is UP With Them?" All of those mysterious little customs that I had found so perplexing when I had first moved, well, Graciella and I compared notes and laughed away our frustrations. It felt good to have a friend and an ally who was not, in any way, an employee of Klingklang or Ralf Hütter.

Twitter was our meeting place, the scene of our commiseration and laughter, where we compared notes like 'Pedestrian crossing: no cars for miles. But they will just STAND THERE until the light changes' and 'Ask in German in shop. They reply in English. REST OF CONVERSATION IN ENGLISH' and '15 seconds after tram signal turns to "Sofort" without tram: TUT TUT TUT TUT TUT!' 

She practised her halting German on me, and I gave her virtual hugs and told her I had been much, much worse when I moved to Germany four months ago. (Was it really only four months? It felt like a year.) 'Don't worry, if you make a mistake on Twitter, a German will be along in 14.5 seconds to correct you' I teased. 'Do you ever do it deliberately, misuse the Dative to see if they will correct you.' 'Honey, how do you rob a German bank?' 'Does it involve walking up to the security guards and using the Dative incorrectly.' 'Yes, then while they are patiently explaining the difference between Dir and Dich you sneak around them.' 'And steal all of the money!!! Hurrah!'

I laughed and laughed every time Graciella came on Twitter. Finally, here was someone going through the same frustrations of staying in Germany and having a German lover. Twitter was, in many ways, my safe space away from Klingklang, where I could relax and take a detached, ironic tone, slightly mocking my dayjob. Which was why I felt oddly like I'd been kicked in the gut when I logged onto Tumblr that evening, and saw that Katrin had deliberately tagged me in a post.

>>i'm not sure how i ended up with 1000+ followers on here, but if any of you are also on twitter, please be aware that i now have an account at @KrefeldPunkKatrin go! go! go! will always follow back!<<

The same message was repeated in English, with a note added at the end: 'I'm just going to tag @KateTremaineTumbles in case you miss this!'

I felt really odd, on so many levels. The first was the realisation that Katrin had so many followers. Maybe she was just really outgoing, maybe she posted in some really popular fandoms (MCR, I knew, were huge on Tumblr) but it had taken me 5 years to accumulate about 300 followers, most of whom I was convinced were either dormant or pornbots. I wondered if she also followed that many, in which case, well, that explained the endless churn on her dashboard. My gut reaction was that I didn't want to follow her on Twitter, but immediately, I felt churlish. Maybe she wouldn't be as annoying on Twitter, and also, well, Twitter came with a mute button if she got too much.

I tabbed over to Twitter, and saw that I already had a new follower who had liked about a dozen of my tweets. Well, three guesses who that was. Of course all the tweets she had liked were the jokes about #WeirdThingsGermansDo. I looked at her account, and saw that she had followed over 50 people, mostly punk and emo musicians who showed highly creative use of eyeliner and hair wax, but she only had about a dozen followers. I felt a bit bad about that. Mostly thanks to my art, I had over 700 followers on Twitter. She didn't seem to be tweeting that often, so I decided to bite the bullet and just follow her back as a courtesy.

Now, I fully admitted to being a persistent subtweeter. I still followed a ton of friends back in London, and some of the ~popular British tweeters~ so I could still vicariously keep track of both British politics, and the vaguely leftie music journo scene back at home. I had long grown weary of directly jumping into hashtags or @-ing people I wasn't 100% sure wouldn't freak out at what I had to say. But I frequently made gnomic and mysterious tweets of frustration without directly stating who or what I was annoyed about. Some of my closer friends played along. A ~popular British tweeter~ would say something well-meaning but tooth-grindingly oblivious, and I'd subtweet something cutting, and a mutual who followed both of us would like the tweet as a kind of surreptitious eyeroll. Childish stuff, but really it was better than causing a big argument.

However, the problem was, someone new to Twitter, who wasn't part of the same gang, who wasn't seeing all the same retweets and subtweets and shade, would see my tweets as isolated floating moments without a sphere of reference. A tweet like 'JFC you ütter hypocritical cow, condemning nepotism when you only got you job because of your father' made perfect sense in the midst of a Twitterstorm about Victoria Coren saying something less than charitable about Jeremy Corbyn's son getting a very minor job at Parliament. (The 'ütter' thing was one of my phone's foibles - I typed 'Hütter' so often while responding to or discussing Ralf that it became incapable of typing utter without an umlaut.)

But of course, guess who read that and decided immediately that it could definitively and only be about her. The annoying thing was, she never actually came out and just asked, 'hey is that tweet about me' in which case, I could have cleared it up immediately and linked to the Coren tweet, and explained about the well-known journalist who had been her father. But no. I woke up the next morning to see Katrin venting furiously, a whole string of tweets going 'WTF?!' and 'OMG' and >>what a bitchy thing to say! I don't even know how to respond to that<<.

I wasn't completely oblivious. I could see that she was upset about something, but I had absolutely no clue as to the reason, and it didn't even dawn on me that her upset could be in any way linked to anything I'd said. I guess that was always the problem with subtweets. I'd make them, and half the people who followed me would think I was talking about them. But someone would make a direct and unsubtle subtweet that was supposed to be about me, and I would never dream that I was important or notable enough for them to be subtweeting about me.

Two days later, when I hadn't noticed her not speaking to me, I had an odd email drop into my inbox, wherein she sharply threw at me 'i want you to know, i have never tried to get *anything* because of my father's name or position. true, sometimes he offers me tickets to concerts he has been given, in case i want to review them. but i have never played on his name. even though i probably could. never.'

I stared at the email, utterly perplexed. The British Twitter cycle had moved on from Victoria Coren to yet another international gaffe that Boris Johnson had made (this time wading into an international dick-waving incident building between Trump and North Korea) and was busy photoshopping his lumpy flag-waving figure, stuck on a zipwire, into historical disasters from the Great Fire of London to the Titanic to the Hindenberg disaster. 'I'm sorry, Katrin. I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about.' was my only response.

'are you trying to gaslamp me?'

'Gaslight' I corrected. "The term is Gaslight, and I'd really appreciate it if you'd let me know what you're talking about so we can have this conversation properly? Because I honestly have no clue what you are freaking out about.'

There was silence for a few minutes, as I racked my brain to try to work out what she was angry about. Finally, another email appeared, with a link to the tweet. 'i resent the insinuation here when you have, in fact, obviously subtweeted about me before so it's not like i have no grounds on which to make an assumption if something looks blatant as all fuck + a bit insulting. by all means, tell me i'm wildly misinterpreting here but you do have to admit, i had reason to question this. it was possibly a complete coincidence, i accept that, but i did not just make alps out of cowshits.'

I clicked the link, and I nearly burst out laughing when the subtweet about Victoria Coren came up. "You are fucking kidding me," I said aloud, searching back through my timeline to find a screengrab of Coren's tweet, which she had long since deleted. Fortunately, I managed to find a good one, with a screenshot of her tweet, and a link to Alan Coren's wikipedia page, saying "Victoria's Dad, ladies and gents, nothing to see here!" But as I copied and pasted the link back to my email, I tried to think back over when I had even so much so much as mentioned her previously on Twitter.

And suddenly, I was struck by an odd series of things I had thought were coincidences, but suddenly clicked and aligned in my mind. A few days previously, I had made a joking remark about 'Why does every German in my inbox have to have the same surname! It's most confusing!'

I had meant Flo Müller at Klingklang, and Thomas Müller, the landlord at Mintropstrasse, whom I had been chasing to confirm some technical specifics about the building that Ralf had forgotten, and Karlheinz Müller, my own landlord, asking if I would be in for dinner on Thursday evening, as his sister was visiting, and I was welcome to join them for supper. But almost immediately afterwards, I had noted that Katrin had changed both her Twitter display name and her email identification from 'Katrin Hütter' to 'Katrin Zeitpunkt'. I hadn't even connected the two events; I thought she was just trying on a new, punk surname the way teenagers often liked to try on new identities.

The day after that, I had confirmed one of Graciella's #WeirdThingsGermansDo about why Germans always wore hiking socks with sandals, with a photo of a whole gang of Bavarian tourists sitting on the steps of the Rhine Terrace wearing thick hiking socks and Birkenstocks, with the caption '#WeirdThingsGermansDo Socks with sandals: CONFIRMED. Every single German.'

An hour later, Katrin had tweeted a photo of her feet in a cute pair of silver gladiator sandals, with her toenails painted a glossy punk black and a skull ring on her middle toe. I'd thought she was just posting a selfie for the sake of showing off her outfit, like all my other young friends on Twitter, and liked it accordingly. Despite the fact I hadn't actually tagged Graciella in my reply, I had thought it was so obvious that I was talking to her from our private little hashtag, that I hadn't even thought to connect Katrin's tweet with mine.

I stared at the email reply that I was composing, wondering if I should bring up my suspicions, but then decided to stick to the current argument, as this was a tangible thing I could address. I pasted the link to the explanation, and typed.

'Katrin, this is the incident that my tweet was referring to. A writer, the daughter of a prominent British journalist, criticising the supposed nepotism of a politician's son getting a government job. I understand that my tweet was vague, but it was in direct reference to something that was all over Twitter that day. I am sorry if you believed the tweet to be about you, but the error was yours, not mine. Now I am going to have to be frank with you: I follow hundreds of people on Twitter, friends, colleagues, associates, many of whom I share in-jokes, subtweets and running references with, much like you share memes and 'tag yourself, I'm X' jokes with your friends on Tumblr. We're British. Our humour is often sharp, and pointed, and mocking. That is our culture. But if you are going to interpret every sharp, or mocking, or even vaguely pointed tweet I make, as being about you personally, then I really think you should probably not follow me on Twitter. I hope I have made myself clear. K'

I went back to my Twitter profile and slowly read through the past few days' tweets, chatting with Graciella, my subtweets about annoying bits of British politics, and occasional bursts of snark about other users, mixed in with photos of Düsseldorf and retweets of hot-takes about Brexit, and wondered which others of them Katrin might have decided were also about her. It was impossible. I simply couldn't project myself back into the mindset of a defensive teen. Sure, I could remember the fact that I had definitely been touchy and overemotional and bristling with the self-consciousness that made me think every single nasty event was personally directed at me, but I just could no longer bring myself to try to inhabit that way of thinking.

But as I paged back, I winced as I realised that she was correct; there was a subtweet about her. It was from over a week ago, before she even started following me. Just a snarky comment about 'JFC this teen has left 30 notes on my blog overnight. THIRTY. Maybe back off a little?' Yes, that had definitely been about her. But the thing was, it had not been addressed _to_ her. It wasn't as if I'd posted it on Tumblr with her name @-d; it was a private expression of annoyance in what I thought was a semi-private space that she would never read. Cold comfort, I know. But to be honest, it wasn't any worse than her constant stream of  >>OMG this dumb bitch on the Durchaus! tag, she actually tried to steal one of my photos without credit by cutting off the copyright, everybody report her, let's get that bitch banned from Tumblr<< tantrums on Tumblr. She spent her whole damned life subtweeting girls at school, other kids in the online fandom, people at gigs she deemed insufficiently 'punk'. If she had felt stung by an accidental 'hypocritical' accusation, well, she could stand to look in a mirror.

I went to her profile, and for a minute, my finger hovered over the 'block' button. Let it go, I told myself. Be the adult here, and let it go. An email pinged in my inbox, and I rolled my eyes, taking a deep breath to get ready to confront whatever nonsense she had come back with.

But it was only an invitation from Müller. My heartrate returned slowly back to normal as I opened Müller's email. Oh, so she was throwing a 'farewell party' for Graciella at a trendy bar in Unterbilk on Friday night, and had invited everyone from work? OK, this really was serious. But on the other hand, I felt a twinge. Had two weeks gone by so fast? I was going to miss meeting up with Graciella for lunch. But at least, we still had Twitter, and I could keep her posted with updates on #WeirdThingsGermansDo. I hit reply with a smile and wrote back, saying I'd be there, and asked if they'd made a decision. Wait and see, she told me. Wait and see.

I decided to work from home on Friday, so I could head over early and catch up with the pair of them before the full work party, so I texted Ralf to ask him if that was alright.

'Would it be alright if I came in on Thursday, and worked from home on Friday, or are you still responsible for Pony Club runs on Thursday afternoon?'

'I am happy to see you any day you wish. Yes, I will need to pick up my daughter on Thursday afternoon, but I only need to dash over to Uerdingen and back, which shouldn't take much more than an hour. I can do it on a lunch break, and then I can be back in the evening, for as long as you like, for whatever duties you require of me.'

I smirked to myself, thinking of what duties Ralf liked best to perform for me. 'Just make sure your batteries are fully charged. I think you can guess which program I wish to run.'

'As always, I am your servant, I am your worker.'

It was always a game between us, to see how close we could come to outright filth by text message, while still maintaining the plausible deniability that we were just flipping lyrical references at one another again. But our text messages, unlike any other of our forms of communication, I was fairly sure were secure. His phone was simply too lo-fi to be hacked.

We got a great deal of work done early in the afternoon on Thursday, as if trying to buy ourselves time off with good behaviour. Then, as he drove off to fetch his daughter, I knew that I had an hour or two's grace to check Tumblr without feeling spied on. I hadn't realised how weird and tense I had started to feel using Tumblr, until I had a few hours I felt I could actually act without feeling I was being observed. I liked a whole slew of posts, I commented on friends' blogs without worrying that I was exposing them to scrutiny, and I felt like I could actually play, reblogging a couple of 'tag yourselves' and contributing to a running text-based chain post.

Because, I realised, another thing that had started to bug me about Katrin's behaviour on Tumblr was her Monkey See Monkey Do mimicry. If I reblogged a 'tag yourself' meme, she would invariably reblog it from me with not just her own answer in the tags, but some commentary on my response. If I reblogged a chain post, she would reblog it, not with an addition to the chain, but with a response to whatever I had added. If I so much as mentioned a band in one of those 'shuffle your iTunes' memes, she instantly became their biggest fan, reblogging photos and videos of them not on her own personal blog, but on Zeitpunkt, where she knew I would be sure to see them. And pettiest of all, she stole my jokes. If I said or did something funny on Tumblr or Twitter that got a few likes, invariably, a few hours later, Katrin would do her own version on her own blog - and as much as it pained me to admit it, it burned me up that her version of my joke would get dozens more notes than the original had, because she always had to make a big deal of the fact that she had over 1000 followers.

Was I really jealous of a teenager? No, don't be absurd. But I definitely felt like I was somehow being content mined in the same way she casually raided her father's wardrobe for his 80s-vintage leather jackets. In one light, it was flattering in an odd way, to see her trying on bits of my life. But on another level, well, you know... you can't be _me_. Me is taken.

But was that really it? Was that the actual source of the discontent? Or was it those endless, weird, vague but vaguely alarming posts, saying vague things like 'I wish I had a Mum who was into Neubauten' when I posted a photo of Blixa Bargeld, or 'I wish my Mum was a writer, and into literature' when I posted a link to the London Review of Books or the Guardian Literary section. Admiration was one thing, and I knew that imitation was the sincerest form of flattery, but those insinuations where it felt like she was trying to worm her way into my personal life and cast me as 'new, cool, punk mum', they left me feeling very, very weird.

Why? Because I really, truly didn't want to be married, and didn't want to end up with an out of control step-daugher? Or because there was, deep down, a part of me that really did, secretly, wish that Ralf would leave his family, and marry me, and resented having this secret, unsayable wish dangled in my face?

"Are you alright? Was ist los?" I jumped, as I looked up, and realised that Ralf had returned, depositing two takeaway bags from the Japanese restaurant on his desk. The smell of miso soup made my stomach rumble.

"I'm fine, why?" I did my best to brighten when I saw him, though my thoughts were still troubled.

"You just looked really angry. I just wondered if something had upset you." He took off his coat and hung it over the back of the door, then double checked the handle to make sure it was locked.

"No, I'm not upset," I lied, closing down Safari and putting my laptop to sleep. It was one of those moments where a word from me could have led to a conversation, could have led to some kind of resolution or intervention with regards to Katrin's increasingly awkward behaviour. But I didn't want to have a serious conversation, or make the kind of recriminations and explanations that that conversation would require. Really, I just wanted to eat my dinner, and then lie on the sofa with my lover, cuddling and kissing and petting until the mood turned to slow, gentle, and long-lasting love-making. "I'm just hungry."

"Good. I got Udon Noodles for you - those are the ones you like, yes? The big, fat flat ones." He smiled as he handed me a carton.

"They are indeed. Dicke Nudeln. And I'm guessing you have Soba?" Snuggling up to him, I peered down into his carton.

"Genau. Do you want my stem ginger?"

"Yes, I'll swap it for my extra wasabi, Danke."

We just fit together so well, the two of us curled up on the sofa, each of us accepting the other's unwanted extras as a treat. When it was good, it was really really good. I felt so tender that evening, cradling him in my arms, bodies touching, lips nibbling against one another. We had reached that point where we were talked out, but the comfortable silence between us felt as intimate as a confession. I looked into his eyes and saw only love and trust.


	13. Klingklang Widows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Müller and Graciella have a big announcement. And Ralf and Katrin are becoming just a bit too careless in their affair.

On Friday, I got my head down, and worked solidly, until the ping! of my alarm went off on my mobile. It was my calendar reminding me that I had agreed to go to Graciella's goodbye party. Shit! I had 20 minutes to get changed and get over to Pempelfort, and I realised with a start I hadn't even had a shower since my cycle ride. So even though I hurried, I found myself arriving 15 minutes late. Unforgivable, to a German, but still quite early as far as Graciella was concerned.

The pair of them were already ensconced in an intimate little double-seat sofa, in the corner of a trendy bar, with drinks and tapas spread out over the large table before them. I sat on the first stool next to them, waiting for our drinking friends to arrive, but as the crowd started to assemble around the table, I realised that I was not the only colleague from Klingklang that had been invited. Rudi and Robbo arrived, both of them accompanied by actual human girls. They all started getting in the beers, but were shortly followed by Falk and his wife, Felda, who turned out to be a tall, bespectacled redhead in tomboyish clothes. Well, he had his type, didn't he. Felda and I hit it off immediately, though, chatting about computer software user interface, of all things. Gudrun and Günter arrived next. Then Henning and his wife arrived, and I suddenly got the fear. Was this going to be not just a work party, but a work plus spouses party? What if Ralf turned up, with Jutta in tow? I was not the slightest bit ready for that, even as Graciella was trying to persuade me to try a particularly smooth variety of sipping tequila.

"It's nothing like the firewater they export to the States for doing shots. It's a really delicately flavoured, rich and complex liquor, aged to be savoured. Try it, I promise you will like it..."

Taking the glass from her, I sipped at it, and found it sent a pleasant shiver down my spine. But then I took another sip, and my heart stopped. Because across the room, Ralf had just stepped through the door, followed a moment behind by a petite, blonde, and exquisitely beautiful woman of a certain age. Was this her? I found myself scanning her face for any sign of love or hate or recognition or anything, as Graciella's voice faded away into the background.

But a moment later, Fritz stepped through the door behind them, and put his arm around the beautiful blonde woman, pointing towards us, and steering her gently in our direction as Ralf strode purposely forward. Conversation and noise seemed to hum back to life around me, as I realised that she was Fritz's partner, not Ralf's.

Ralf reached the table, and coughed to get everyone's attention, before standing up straight with that 'Papa Klingklang' expression on his face. He quickly announced that he would be getting the next round of drinks, on Klingklang, to a restrained German cheer. Although I tried not to look at him too obviously, I felt him reach down and put his hand on my shoulder, squeezing gently as he did his best to collate everyone's orders. It was a far more intimate gesture than he ever normally risked in public, but either no one noticed, or no one cared enough to even glance sharply.

When he came back from going to the bar - or, rather, intercepting a waitress on the way over, and entrusting her with the drinks order - he pulled up a chair and sat to the side of me, though he pretended to address his attentions to Graciella.

\--We have met before-- he told her in perfect, albeit heavily accented Spanish. --Though you probably do not remember the evening.--

She laughed, and replied --I do indeed remember dragging away my extremely drunk friend several times from your dance with Kate.-- It was at that moment that I became aware of a hand on my thigh, and started to smile, though I raised the tequila to cover my blush. --I would apologise on behalf of Maria, but she was so drunk I don't think she remembers much of that night.--

\--The apology is unnecessary-- said Ralf diplomatically, his fingers tracing calm little figure eights against my jeans. --But tell me, since we have all been summoned here for a great announcement. Am I about to lose our trusty technician to the Mexican music scene, or am I about to gain a new Klingklang daughter-in-law?--

Graciella blushed slightly, and smiled to herself, switching to German, to say >>Well. I am not spoiling Müller's big announcement. She is telling you. Soon.<<

At that, realising that the full company was assembled, Müller stood up and started tapping her glass with a fork. >>Everyone, listen up. We have an announcement. Graciella has been successful in an interview to enter a Master's Degree at the Kunstakademie. So, we are going to enter a Registered Partnership, so she can apply for German Citizenship.<<

>>Not _just_ for the German Citizenship, I would hope << said Graciella, with a slight twinkle to her eye as she poked Müller in the ribs.

>>Oh, yes, and also because I am in love with her, and want to marry, and spend the rest of my life with her<< quipped Müller, as if this were an afterthought, and not the main idea of the union. At this, there was an outbreak of rather restrained German clapping and cheering, as Fritz started to tease Müller about taking her on a stag weekend. I leaned forward to hug Graciella, and she kissed me on both cheeks. It was a warm, happy gathering, almost as if Graciella herself was being admitted to the Klingklang family, and I suddenly understood why all the wives had come, as one by one, they offered their congratulations and their welcomes to the bride-to-be.

And at that moment, I felt suddenly bereft. It wasn't fair, everyone sitting there with their partners and girlfriends and wives. True, I was not on my own, though Ralf had let loose of my thigh in the general hugging and back-slapping of the announcement. And yet, still, I felt alone, unable to acknowledge my own beloved. It wasn't even that I wanted to be married to Ralf. As I had repeatedly told Katrin, the idea horrified me. Selfishly, I just didn't want to live with him, to feed him or take care of him, or his little family. Though it wasn't just the desire for independence; that kind of maternal, familial care was just not something I had ever proved myself capable of. And yet, at moments like this, when I saw the long-established couples round the table talking to Müller and Graciella with the slightly misty-eyed romance of remembering their pre-marriage selves, I desperately wanted some acknowledgement that I, too, was in a relationship. I had truly started to hate 'being a secret'.

I turned to look at my lover as the conversation grew louder, all of the wives and girlfriends butting in with their advice or their joking tales of being 'Klingklang widows'. At least I would never be a Klingklang widow, I thought as I looked at the now-familiar lattice of tiny lines around Ralf's eyes, which always sprung into sharper relief when he smiled, as he was smiling now, listening to his bandmates discuss the key to a successful marriage.

The bar was growing noisy, as conversation grew louder. As if in response, the small speaker above Müller's and Graciella's heads kicked into life, spitting out some kind of thumping pop music. Müller rolled her eyes, and Fritz started to raise his voice, repeating a part of the story he was telling us. Günter and Rudi exchanged disgruntled looks, as Falk leaned in closer to shout something in Henning's ear. I could no longer hear much of anything, but I could feel Ralf starting to grow tense beside me, until finally he looked at Günter and said, quietly >>Can we do something about this?<<

>>Ho ho!<< said Günter and nudged Fritz, who turned to Rudi and held out his hand. Rudi dug in the voluminous pockets of his cargo pants, and produced a small toolkit, which he handed to Fritz. Fritz extracted a tool, which he handed to Günter, then gestured for Müller to move out of the way so he could climb up onto the back of the sofa. Günter, who was much taller than him, moved to the other side of the sofa, as the pair of them examined the back of the speaker. Fritz pointed at something, Günter started to unscrew it, then abruptly the speaker fizzled out, and Fritz started coiling up a cable they had removed from the back of it, stuffing it down the back of the sofa. It was all over in a matter of minutes, as Müller and Fritz sat back down, and Günter returned the screwdriver to Rudi. As the volume of the environment dropped again, Ralf visibly relaxed.

>>One of these days<< said Gudrun >>You are going to get caught doing that, and they will make you pay for the damage.<<

>>Don't worry<< said Günter. >>We have been doing this for 35 years, Ralfi and I, and we have never once been caught.<<

>>35 years<< replied Ralf, pounding the table with the flat of his palm. >>Has it been that long. What a team we make!<<

The group of them fell to some boisterous German form of camaraderie, comparing who had been working at Klingklang the longest, trying to remember if Fritz had started as a sound engineer before Robbo (until Henning butted in and reminded them that he had joined the back-line a good year before Fritz) and discussing exploits from 25 years previously. Obviously, it was very good for the group, and for building team spirit, sharing these old memories, and rehashing good times gone by, but I felt very suddenly and very completely like an outsider. It was nothing that anyone had said or done, and obviously Graciella was as new to the group as I was, and yet the women were trying to include her, in a way they had not been trying to include me.

But I felt overwhelmed, and quickly excused myself, to go to the bathroom. Luckily, the one stall was unoccupied, so I bolted myself in, and sat down on the edge of the toilet, waiting for tears. But no, I wasn't upset enough to cry, I was just rattled and over-emotional. The tequila had hit me harder than I had been expecting, and I was feeling very emotionally raw.

After only a few minutes, I heard the external door open and close, as someone entered the ladies' room. I froze, wondering what I should do; if I should pretend to be relieving myself, or just flush and come out. Abruptly, someone rapped on the door to the stall.

>>Yes, yes, just a minute<< I said quickly, grabbing a handful of tissues and thrusting them into my pocket in case the tears came.

"No, no, it's only me. Take your time." It was Graciella.

"No, I'm not using the loo. I'm just having a moment," I said quickly, vacating the stall. "It's a bit crowded out there."

"It's nice, though," said Graciella, taking my place in the stall, though she continued to talk to me through the door. "Everyone is really going out of their way to make me feel welcome."

"I'm glad. It really is a nice group of people, despite the public image of 'Kraftwerk' as insular unfeeling robots, or whatever," I said.

"Do you know, it's funny. I was not even a big fan of Kraftwerk when I agreed to go to that concert with my friends. And yet, how that night has changed my life." The toilet flushed, and I heard her moving around, until the door opened. But she stopped, when she saw me, still standing at the sink, trying to put cold water onto my eyes to stop the threat of tears. "Are you alright? You look like you have been crying."

"I'm fine," I insisted, dabbing at my eyes, which, although I had not actually cried, still looked as if I were going to, at any moment. "It's just... There's some stuff going on in my life. It's not important. Let's go back and celebrate your big announcement."

"What kind of stuff?" Graciella asked, and it did actually sound as if she were genuinely sympathetic, rather than fishing for gossip. "Is it lover problems?"

"No, no. Work stuff," I said vaguely.

"Your boss," she guessed, with almost uncanny accuracy. "Ralf, the big boss."

"What makes you say that?" I whirled to face her, looking at her slightly suspiciously as I made a place for her at the sink.

"He is in love with you, you know," she said, with quiet confidence, as she washed her hands.

"What?" I sputtered, feeling my head suddenly start to spin around.

"Come on, don't tell me you haven't noticed. The way he looks at you, the way he leans towards you even when he's speaking to someone else, the expression he gets every time you speak. And when you left, he stared after you for an awfully long time. Even when you two were dancing together, in Mexico, it was obvious to me. You were dancing for the pleasure of dancing. He was dancing because he wanted to be near to you."

"Don't be absurd," I said quickly, feeling as if I were chasing marbles that had scattered hopelessly all over the floor, and trying to stuff them back into a small velvet bag before anyone tripped over them. "He's married."

"So was I once," replied Graciella, in a sing-song voice. Noting my shocked expression, she smiled at me in the mirror, and added. "Don't worry. It was a long time ago, when I was very young. Flo already knows all about it. Do you love him, your boss?"

I defiantly avoided her gaze. "You tell me, since you seem to know everything."

She looked me up and down, as I tried to avoid her gaze, then smiled at me again. "I think you do, or you wouldn't be crying in the bathroom. Are you sleeping with him? Don't worry, I won't tell Flo."

Feeling my face heating up, I struggled with the desire to just tell someone, anyone, outside of Ralf and myself. "I'm not going to answer that."

Graciella just smirked. "OK, sure. You are. If you weren't, you would have just said no."

I said nothing, I just pulled myself up a little straighter.

"Come on, let's go back to the table. But I tell you what. Let's try a little experiment. When we get back, let's you and I switch seats."

Back at the table, we did as she suggested. I was quite relieved at the change, as I really wanted to get a private moment to talk to Müller. >>So you're really doing it.<<

>>We're really doing it.<< She beamed with joy. Müller had always rather struck me as a particularly jovial, happy-go-lucky kind of person, but she genuinely looked a little overwhelmed by her good fortune. >>Marriage. Me!<<

>>Good for you! Congratulations. I'm so pleased for you. Is she going to move in with you, or...?<<

>>We're actually thinking of buying a place. Graciella wants another room for a painting studio, which, obviously there isn't the space for in my apartment. I actually have a bit saved up, and if she sells her place in Mexico City... yeah we might actually move out to the suburbs for a bit of space.<<

>>You? In the suburbs? Who are you, and what have you done with the real Müller? I cannot picture you away from the bar scene.<<

>>I can cycle in any case. And if not, there are always the trams...<<

But at that moment, Fritz caught her attention, and wanted to start chatting with her about something. Fritz's partner got up to use the Ladies', and Müller moved into her vacated seat, in order to hear him over the now quite noisy chatter of the bar. Only a few minutes later, Ralf used some excuse to get up from his seat, first swapping places with Graciella, so that she could talk to Falk's wife, then finally gesturing for me to move over and allow him to take the other half of the double seat beside me.

Had we been alone, I knew from the way he was looking at me, that he would have put his arm around my shoulder, and pulled me close for a kiss. But instead, we sat just looking at one another, and trying very hard not to let our legs drift together.

>>You are looking particularly beautiful tonight<< he said, very low, almost under his breath, as if he were making a comment about the weather.

>>Stop it.<< I laughed, and felt my face flush.

>>No, I mean it. When it is humid, your hair goes into a row of little ringlets. It is very attractive.<<

I turned back to look at him, noting that one unruly lock that would not stay tidily combed to one side with the rest of his hair, but curled down across his forehead. If we had been alone, I would have tucked it back up, and he would have caught my hand to kiss it. >>Speak for yourself.<<

Across the table, I saw Graciella suddenly turn around, and glance back towards us. Catching my eye, she winked, and I dropped her gaze immediately.

>>I want to be alone with you<< he breathed, only inches from my ear. >>How soon before you think we can politely leave?<<

>>We should stay at least another hour. And really, you should get up and circulate. Go and say hello to people, instead of snuggling up with me.<< I urged.

>>And then people really would be suspicious. They know that I do not 'circulate'<< he teased. >>I find someone I like and stick to them.<<

I gently laughed at him and tossed him a wink, then got up and walked over to talk to Felda some more, inserting myself into the conversation as she and Graciella discussed digital art. After a few minutes, we were all exchanging email addresses and links to online portfolios of our work, which pleased me greatly. I already knew Graciella's beautiful pictures, but I was curious to see what Felda's work would be like. While we were talking, I saw out of the corner of my eye, that Falk had gone over to Ralf, and sat down on a stool beside the sofa, and started to engage him in conversation. It struck me again, as actually really sweet the way that Falk went out of his way to try to include his boss in the socialising. Ralf had been honest about one thing; he did like to find someone he liked and stick to them.

And yet, precisely an hour after I had said to Ralf that we should stay, he abruptly stood up and announced that he must be off. He turned to Graciella and rather stiffly, but really quite heartfelt for Ralf, wished her congratulations and bon voyage. Then he turned back to me, and casually said >>Katrin, I know you came on your bicycle. Would you like a ride back to the Berger Allee?<<

>>That would be very nice, actually, thanks, Ralf<< I said, as casually as I could, then started to gather up my things. I shook Müller's hand, then hugged Graciella, telling her I would miss her, and asked her to hurry back to Germany as soon as possible.

But as she clung to my neck, she whispered very quietly in my ear, "You're going off to be with him, aren't you?"

"That's none of your business," I said quietly as I pulled away, but she grinned up at me.

"Life is very short, and often full of pain. Grab your joy while you can, where you can."

>>Words to live by<< said Müller, and proposed a toast. I stayed just long enough to cheer them, then left with Ralf.

I tossed my rucksack into the back seat as we loaded my bike onto the rack of his Mercedes, then climbed in to sit beside him. He indicated and pulled out into traffic, then started to drive up and down the streets of Düssedorf, looking for a place where we could be alone.

"Where do you want to go?" I asked, feeling suddenly very bold, reaching out to touch that curl that had defied me before, tucking it back with the rest of his forelock. "Can we get a hotel?"

"It's Friday night. We won't get a hotel room in the city," sighed Ralf. "We could try to drive out to a park, and climb in the back seat of the car... But that is risky, and we don't have very good luck with trying to make love in the car. We might have to go all the way back to Klingklang."

I glanced down at the clock on the dashboard. "Oh. It's still quite early. Karlheinz will probably still be out. In fact, on a Friday night, he usually stays out until about midnight." I stopped and looked up at him, as he stopped at a light, and glanced over at me. "Do you want to come to mine?"

"Ja," he said quickly, and put the car into gear, just as the light started to change.

He parked around the corner, but we dared to hold hands as we walked up the street in the dark, keeping to the shadows under the trees. Looking up at my building, I counted the floors. Lights were on in the ground floor and the second floor, but my apartment was dark. Taking the keys out of my pocket, I quietly unlocked the front door and let us in, feeling like I was burgling my own home. We crept up the stairs, Ralf glancing up at the darkened window over the apartment door as he slipped off his shoes. Feeling vaguely like a teenager sneaking boys into the house, I unlocked the door of the apartment quietly and peered into the dark, reassuring myself that Karlheinz was not home before I opened the door a bit wider for Ralf to follow. I could negotiate the house in the dark, but I heard Ralf swear behind me as he stubbed his toe on something.

I turned on only a small table lamp in the kitchen, then turned to offer him something. "Cup of tea? Coffee? Glass of wine?" I suggested.

The look he gave me almost frightened me. "No thank you. All I want is to go in your room, and lock the door, and make love to you until you cannot walk straight."

I smiled, biting my lip nervously, and led the way backwards into my room. He closed the door behind himself, locked the bolt, and then we both fell into bed, and fell on one another. We fucked as if we were both half-starved, as if we hadn't already been at it, only two days previously. He brought me to orgasm with the precision of a machine, and then I lay reeling in his arms, my head against his chest, smelling his faint musk and listening to his heartbeat. If I closed my eyes and laid my ear against his scar, the thudding of his heart was like the muffled ticking of a great clock. His skin was so warm, my bed was so cosy, and he felt so good wrapped around me.

 

And when I woke, the sky over the Mannesmann building was just starting to turn pinkish. It took a moment to remember where I was, and whose arms were wrapped tightly around my waist, his face was crushed against my shoulder blades.

"Ralf, wake up. Quickly," I urged, shaking him gently.

>>What is it?<< he muttered gently, hating to be woken from a warm bed. >>What is wrong?<<

Reaching over my head, I tapped the keyboard of my laptop to wake the screen, checking the time and groaning. Realising he was still half asleep, I switched to German to try to get through to him. >>We fell asleep. It's just gone half before six. Come on, you've got to get up. If you want a shower, you've got to go now, before Karlheinz wakes up. Take my dressing gown, it's on the back of the door.<<

>>Can't I just have another five minutes of sleep...<<

>>Ralf, now<< I hissed, almost pushing him out of bed. As he padded, disgruntled, to the shower to wash himself, I lay back, feeling shattered. My landlord would be easy. He slept like a rock, and never woke before nine. But how on earth was Ralf going to explain this to his wife?


	14. Blackmail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After getting caught staying out all night, Ralf and Katrin are rumbled.

As Ralf returned from the shower, he looked slightly more awake, but slightly more worried. >>This is not good.<< he finally seemed to realise, glancing nervously at his watch as he fastened it back onto his wrist. >>How will I explain this?<<

>>Can you tell her that you fell asleep on the sofa in your office?<< I asked, grasping at straws.

>>She knows I was not at Klingklang, I told her that I was going to Müller and Graciella's party. She, too, received the invitation, though she had prior plans.<<

>>Can you not say we went on, to an all night disco?<<

>>Do I look like I have been to a disco?<<

>>I don't know. But you have got to go. And now, before you get a ticket on your car. Then she will definitely know you were here.<<

He sat down on the edge of the bed, and kissed me one last time, and then he fled. I lay back, turned over, and fell back asleep almost immediately, but my dreams were complicated and tangled. I was sitting on a cramped sofa, with Katrin on one side, and Ralf on the other, and a woman I could not see but knew to be Jutta sitting beyond him. Desperately, we kept trying not to let our legs touch, but the sofa seemed to be shrinking, or maybe more people kept piling in on either side of us. Ralf put his hand on my leg, to steady himself, but the whole sofa seemed to be tipping backwards, pushing us further and further together until his hand went up my thighs, trying desperately to extricate myself from the pile of bodies, even while being aware that the pressure of his hand between my legs was making me more and more aroused, but I could not let Katrin or Jutta see.

When I finally woke, I reached for my bag, wanting to dig out my phone, and text Ralf to ask him if he had got home alright. But my bag was not in its usual place, by the low table at the head of my bed. I got up, and poked around, but to no avail. Well, that was odd. How on earth had we got in, if I hadn't had my keys, my bag and everything? But as I padded out to the kitchen, I saw that my keys had been tossed casually on the kitchen table next to the lamp. I went back to the front door, even peering out into the hall to check if I'd left it by the chair where I always stopped to take my shoes off, but there was no sign of it. Finally, I padded through into the living room, picked up the house phone, and dialled my mobile number.

Nothing. Silence. My phone rang in my ear, so it was definitely turned on, but the flat was as silent as the grave.

Cursing myself, I tried to remember where I'd last seen it. I'd definitely had it at the bar the previous night. Maybe if I called the bar, they could check if it had been turned in as lost property... but then the memory appeared, through my tequila-befuddled senses. I'd tossed it into the back seat as Ralf and I manhandled my bicycle onto the rack. I had not had it when we found our way, giggling, into the apartment building. I'd just pulled my keys from my pocket. Everything was in that bag. My phone, my wallet, my bank cards... and then suddenly I remembered my bicycle. If I hadn't retrieved that, Ralf must have just driven off with it still strapped to the back of his car.

Feeling anxiety building in the bottom of my stomach, I found my way back to the kitchen and made a cup of tea, trying to think what to do. Email would be the sensible option. And by sheer blind luck, I had left my laptop on the table in my bedroom. Had I been coming from Klingklang instead of home, my laptop, too, would have been in that bag. Ralf didn't have a smartphone, so he wouldn't get an email as quickly as a text, but still, I sat down and logged on, hoping he would at least check his iPad over the weekend.

'Ralf, I'm very sorry, but I think I left my bag in the back of your car after you dropped me off. So don't text me, but email me back if you find it. Hope you got home alright. K'

I went off and made breakfast, realising that I was confined to eating what there was in the house until I got my wallet and bank cards back. Without my bicycle, it wasn't like I could go anywhere, anyway. Hopefully Karlheinz would lend me the money to get the tram out to Klingklang so I could recover bike and bag on Monday, but until then, things would be a bit thin. But after breakfast, when I returned to check my email, there was bad news in my inbox.

'Well, that would explain why you did not answer my text or my phone call. However, I am very sorry, but I think you are mistaken. I have checked the car, and your bag is not on the back or the front seat. Your cycle, though, I do have. I shall bring it to Klingklang on Monday.'

I stared at the screen, wondering if I dared ask him how things had gone on his belated return home, but I knew that his email, unlike SMS communication, was insecure. If Müller could log on and read it, anything he told me would be all over the studio by Monday. But at that point, I had a slightly bigger concern. If the bag was not in the car, that meant I had almost certainly left it on the doorstep of my apartment building, or even out on the street. I might as well have just handed it to a pickpocket. If I wanted to report the bank cards as stolen, I had to get to the bank before 2pm, and it was well past noon. Fortunately, my passport and my English identification were not things I carried around with me, so they were still safe in the top drawer of my desk. I took them out, stuffed them into the pockets of my leather jacket, then started my trudge downstairs.

On a mad chance, I checked the lobby, but there was nothing there but the post. Neither was there any sign of my bag on the steps outside. But as I pulled the building's heavy door closed behind me, I had the distinct impression I was being watched. I was about to go next door to the bistro, to see if any of their clientele had found it, when I saw someone waving to me from the bench across the street.

Oh, fuck. It was Katrin. What the hell was she doing here?

>>Hallo, Kate!<< she called as I did my best to go sailing past her.

>>Katrin, I am in a real hurry today. I don't really have time to talk to you right now.<<

>>Are you looking for something?<< she called out in a sing-song voice that made me stop in my tracks. I turned around, and it was then that I saw she was holding a large, forest green rucksack in her lap.

>>That's my bag<< I said, halfway between relief and accusation, holding my hand out to take it.

>>I thought so<< said Katrin, a little triumphantly. >>It's an English brand, you can't buy them in Germany. And I had seen you carrying it, the first night I met you.<<

>>Where did you find it?<<

>>It was ringing, on the back seat of my father's car, this morning when I went out to check the post.<< And as she said that, the edge of insinuation in her voice made me realise this was more than a social call.

>>Can I have my bag, please, Katrin<< I asked, a little more nicely. She did not look at me, but kept a firm grip on it, studying it carefully, as I felt a finger of fear shiver up my spine.

>>You are not getting your bag back, until I get some answers<< she replied, in a defiant tone that made all of my senses suddenly come alert and alive, my skin almost twitching with the alarm of a sudden threat. >>My Papa did not get home until nearly seven o'clock this morning. I heard him come in. His room is closer to mine than to Mama's, and I was awake, just finishing skyping with a friend in Japan.<<

I swallowed nervously, sinking down to sit at the other end of the bench, keeping a very close eye on her, as if worried she would leap up and run off with my bag at any moment. Her words echoed about my head, as I parsed them quickly, trying to figure out what she wanted. So her father and mother had separate bedrooms? That was not something I had contemplated. >>Oh really?<< I said, refusing to commit to anything.

>>He had to be with you last night, otherwise how would the bag come to be in the back of his car?<<

Blinking slowly, I wished Ralf and I had been able to synchronise our stories before being thrown into this mess. We had been so worried about his wife, Katrin had not even come into our thoughts. I took a deep breath and tested a story on my tongue, hoping my voice didn't shake. >>He gave me a ride home from a friend's party. I had a little too much tequila at the party. I didn't realise I'd forgotten my bag until this morning. You didn't need to bring it all the way out here, I could have got it from him on Monday.<<

Katrin just stared at me, her intense blue eyes just a little bit too much like her father's. >>You were at this party until seven in the morning?<<

>>Of course not<< I snapped. >>I don't know where your father went after he dropped me off. Maybe he went to a disco. Maybe back to the studio. I have no idea.<<

>>There's a text from my Papa on your phone<< she said, with a decidedly accusatory tone. >>And three missed calls.<<

>>What, you're spying on my phone now? That's enough, Katrin. Give me my bag.<< At that, she finally seemed to realise that she might have crossed some line, and sulkily handed my bag over. As I dug for my phone, she started to protest.

>>Well, I wanted to make sure it was your bag before I brought it all the way out here.<<

I found my phone, but it had locked right up, demanding fingerprint verification, as if someone had been trying to punch in multiple incorrect access codes. I knew that it displayed the sender and first line of any texts I received, and I wondered what she'd seen. Enough to make her suspicious... but if Ralf had said anything truly incriminating, she wouldn't be asking the next question.

>>Are you... and my Papa... is there something going on between the two of you? Are you having an affair?<<

>>Katrin!<< I snapped, just as my phone finally recognised my fingerprint and unlocked the home screen. There was the message from Ralf, a little odd but deniably innocent.

'Home safe now. All is well. Sleep soundly, I will ring you when I wake.'

>>I won't tell anyone if you are. Not even my swine of a mother. But I have a right to know. If my parents get divorced, I want to live with you and Papa.<<

>>No one is getting divorced<< I said, very icily. >>Your imagination is running wild.<<

>>You know if he leaves, she keeps the house. It cannot be sold, on account of my aunt, who lives upstairs. I heard her saying so to one of her friends on the phone. Do you think Papa will move to Düsseldorf? I'd like to live in Düsseldorf, it has a way better music scene than sleepy old Krefeld. Or London! Wow, can you persuade Papa to go and live in London with you? How amazing would that would be. If he moved to London, for you. It would be as romantic as one of your stories. I'd love to live in London! With you as my Step-Mama. You would take me with you, wouldn't you?<<

>>You're deluded<< I said quickly, feeling panic churning my stomach. >>You have an overactive imagination. You've been reading too many of my stories, and you have mistaken me for one of my characters.<<

Katrin narrowed her eyes at me. >>If I'm deluded, how about I tell my Mama that Papa came home at seven in the morning, with your things all over the back seat. He won't leave her; he doesn't want to lose the house. But if she leaves him...<<

>>No one is leaving anyone! Katrin, you can't go around saying these kinds of things! I know you are trying to turn everything into a soap opera with you at the centre, but real life is not like the things you imagine. I told you. You should put these kinds of fantasies into a book, not into messing around with people's lives and people's careers.<< This was killing me. I knew I could not get away with lying flat out, but I just could not think of a cover story on the hoof like that. It alarmed me, that Jutta had been discussing the eventuality of Ralf leaving. That meant she _had_ to know. Or maybe she didn't know. Maybe like Katrin, she just suspected. But Katrin had just denied her the tangible proof. My word, against a troubled fifteen year old with known emotional problems? I didn't fancy either of our chances.  >>I know you think this is a giant joke, but you can ruin people's lives with these kinds of insinuations.<<

Katrin did not seem convinced; she was much more wily than I had given her credit for. >>Well, I can just tell Mama the facts. Then we can let her draw her own conclusions. Papa was out all night; this is the truth. Out all night and texting you to let you know he had got home, as if he had been with you.<<

>>And how about I tell your father the truth that you are in Düsseldorf - does he even know you are here? You aren't even allowed to come here by yourself, at your age, are you? How about I tell your father that you are sneaking about, taking people's things without permission, trying to blackmail his employees... You realise that this is the kind of stuff that will have you talking not just to a child psychologist, but to the police?<< I snapped back.

At that, Katrin fell silent and looked at me with huge eyes, as if only just realising the magnitude of what she had just done, but as I took out my phone, she became alarmed. >>What are you doing?<<

>>Texting your father<< I snapped, a little louder than I had intended.

>>You can't tell him I'm in Düsseldorf. You can't! He'll take my internet away if I'm punished!<< Her voice really sounded panicked, and one of the patrons at the bistro on the corner turned around. I smiled wanly and did my best to nonchalantly roll my eyes, and the diner relaxed and smiled back at me, her face shifting into a sort of commiserating look, like, yes, difficult age. Clearly she had just taken us for a squabbling mother and daughter.

>>Keep your voice down, please. You are not exactly in the position to make demands, and I need to tell him that my bag has turned up, so he doesn't tell Gudrun to cancel my phone.<<

>>Let me see what you're writing.<< She moved over to gaze at the screen as I typed.

For a moment, I wanted to push her away and tell her to butt out of my business, but instead I turned the screen to show her. 'Stand down the alert. My bag has turned up. K'

For a long moment, there was silence between us, as she watched me hit send, and the message delivered with a soft _shoop_. But as she realised I had not ratted her out, Katrin seemed to grow cocky again.

"Can we go for coffee? I quite fancy cake at Cafe Bittner," she asked, switching to English as she realised that the middle-aged mum in the cafe was still watching us with a slightly cautious expression.

I weighed the options in my mind, and sighed deeply. This needed to be resolved one way or another, and perhaps she would be less... volatile in a more public place? "Alright," I agreed. As soon as she stood up to go, her attention distracted, I quickly typed out another text to Ralf. 'We need to talk. SOON.'

My phone buzzed almost immediately in my hands, and Katrin whirled to face me, but this time I didn't let her see the screen. 'What is going on?' texted Ralf.

'Can't talk now. Will call you later to explain.' Then I turned my phone off, making sure I locked it with fingerprint verification in case she'd seen the number I used to unlock it, and put it away.

>>Was that my Papa?<< she demanded.

I nodded warily as I followed her around the castle towards Carlsplatz. 

Her Doc Marten boots scuffed loudly against the cobbles. >>What did he say?<<

>>I told him we needed to talk.<<

>>About me?<<

>>Well, that depends on you, Katrin<< I said, hoping it sounded enough like a threat to make her pay attention. We rounded Orangeriestrasse and turned into Benrather Strasse in silence

As we crossed the market place, dodging afternoon drinkers and tourists, Katrin started to laugh. >>So if I don't tell my Mama that you are having an affair with Papa, you don't tell my Papa that I have been sneaking out to Düsseldorf. This is like one of those prisoners' dilemmas that my philosophy teacher likes to pose at school.<<

Some kind of tension fizzled between us, an almost electrical current that made my skin feel clammy, but abruptly, like the sun coming out from behind a cloud, I suddenly saw the funny side, in this acknowledgement of what a dangerous game we were both playing.

I risked a smile. >>Well, I hope you don't find your school work such a laughing matter. Like I said, you should save your imagination for your writing.<<

Katrin skipped across the last road, and waltzed up to the door. >>You could teach me how to write, if you were my step-mama.<< She nodded at the waitress who came towards us, then gaily announced. >>We will have Papa's usual table in the window...<<

>>Fraulein, I'm afraid the window is taken...<< interrupted the waitress, and Katrin rounded on her, actually stamping her feet petulantly, and pouting as if she were half her age.

>>That's not fair! Who would...<< Slipping past the waitress who was trying to divert us off to another table, Katrin advanced to see who was sitting at the centre table, stalking up towards the old man in a flat cap who had dared to take the seat she thought of as 'hers'.

The waitress glared at me, and I shrugged, trying to distance myself from that spoiled child, but in that moment, I saw it her eyes. She thought I was her mother, and was judging me, with that intense German judgement, for not controlling my brat. And I knew at that point, that I had no intention of ever being anyone's stepmother, least of all Katrin, and that I had to stop this before it got any further.

"Katrin, please don't pester this gentleman, we can sit somewhere else..." I sighed, walking towards the table, but to my great embarrassment, she had already sat down opposite him. Cringing, I turned towards them and started to apologise "Es tut mir leid, I am so so sorry... Come, Katrin..."

But she smiled up at me, her face shining. >>It's OK, it's only Uncle Flo.<<

As I reached the other side of table, I glanced down at the older gentleman in the green tweed cap and the matching, bottle-green suit, and looked straight into the austere and slightly monk-like face of Florian Schneider, gazing serenely across at Katrin.


	15. Spies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Katrin tries desperately to negotiate with her lover's out-of-control daughter, she runs straight into her lover's former partner.

I did my best not to stare, but all of my German seemed to desert me. Florian was so extraordinary looking, with his dapper clothes and sharply angled face, lit by those bright blue eyes, so pale they looked almost silver. But he was sitting so calmly and contemplatively he could be just any German grandfather, sipping coffee as he gazed out across the market square. Florian, unlike the eternally youthful Ralf, looked all of his nearly seventy years, his head bald, even his eyebrows grey, but at the same time there was something so childlike about his gaze that he could have been ageless.

"I am so, so sorry to bother you, Herr Schneider," I stuttered, then cast a stern glance at Katrin. "I apologise for this... naughty little girl."

"It is quite alright." Florian's voice was very soft, his English slow and heavily accented but quite perfect. "Katrin and I are old friends. And I like naughty little girls. I have one of my own, but she is far too grown up these days to join her Papa for cake and ice cream."

Katrin looked up and grinned. "Can I have ice cream with my cake?"

"Of course." Florian smiled, his whole face lighting up. When he smiled, he was an almost unbearably attractive man, and I felt my inner fangirl doing stomach flops in a way that I didn't really think I was still capable of.

" _May_ I," I said, sort of limply, remembering that Katrin had asked me to help her with her English.

Florian's face widened to a grin, his eyes flickering towards me, then back to Katrin, bending forward with a slightly conspiratorial air. "So your parents have hired an English governess to try to tame your naughtiness. _May_ we be introduced?"

"She is Kate," said Katrin, picking up a desert spoon and stealing a bit of ice cream off Florian's cake, her eyes growing slightly malevolent as she licked the spoon clean. "She's not my governess; she is my Papa's mistress."

"I am nothing of the sort!" I sputtered, feeling my face growing very red. But Florian was studying me very carefully now, the penetrating gaze of those silvery eyes almost too much to take. "I am his... well, I am a sort of secretary."

"So _you_ are the amanuensis," said Florian, and his eyes focused in on me, until I felt like an insect trapped in a pair of pincers. But then the waitress reappeared, hovering round the table, and Florian caught her attention.  >>Chocolate cake, with ice cream, for my guests, please. And three hot chocolates.<<

>>With whipped cream?<< asked the waitress.

>Not for me, thank you<< I interrupted as Florian and Katrin both nodded enthusiastically.

>>I will have yours<< announced Katrin.

>>Alright, leave the cream on mine<< I shrugged, then turned back to Florian. "How did you know that?"

Florian shrugged, an effortlessly elegant gesture, making great use of his wide shoulders and long, slender arms. His smile was almost inscrutable, and yet completely adorable. "He has spies on me. So I have spies on him. We have been divorced nearly ten years now, but this is just his way."

I looked at him carefully, realising that he must still have friends at Klingklang. Despite the security, nothing in that building was secret at all. "So you know that we are writing a book."

Florian laughed. Unlike Ralf's short little breathy bursts, Florian's laugh was a deep rumbling sound that came from his belly. "Ralf has been writing a book since I have known him. Do you think he will ever finish." It wasn't even a question, it was an assertion.

"I actually have a complete first draft, at this point," I said, slightly defensively, feeling as if my skills were being impugned as much as Ralf's. "I have every intention of making him finish."

Florian raised an eyebrow, looking vaguely impressed. He had the most oddly expressive face at times, then at other times he was completely unreadable. For a moment, I thought, he and Ralf must have been almost telepathic to understand one another. But then he smiled again. "He must like you."

"He..." But I was interrupted by the waitress, who came back with a tray, dishing out cake and three large hot chocolates, brimming over with whipped cream. There was a delicate operation as I spooned cream and cherry off my drink, and onto Katrin's cake, as Florian very deftly changed the subject.

>>Katrin, how is school? You are at Gymnasium now, yes?<<

>>It's boring<< shrugged Katrin.

>>School is supposed to be boring. It prepares you for real life, which is almost all boredom<< quipped Florian. >>Is your favourite subject still Maths?<<

>>No<< said Katrin, sounding very young. >>That was ages ago. It's English literature now. I want to be a writer.<<

>>I see.<< Florian nodded sagely, and I wondered how long it had been since they had seen each other. Then I remembered that his sister Claudia and Ralf's wife still stayed in contact, and I wondered about how tangled together the families still were. >>What are you writing?<<

>>Music journalism, mostly<< said Katrin between wolfish bites of cake. She seemed much younger, almost a child around her 'Uncle Flo'. But then I had to remind myself; at 15, she was still half-child, half-adult. Growing up didn't happen all at once, it happened in fits and spurts, two steps forwards, one step back.

Florian laughed again. It was a very disarming laugh, and I found myself warming to him. >>Your father must disapprove terribly.<<

>>Yes, he does.<< Here she cast a conspiratorial glimpse towards me. >>But Kate has been helping me.<<

>>Has she.<< And here, Florian turned his penetrating pale blue eyes back on me.I squirmed, and took a bite of cake, completely overwhelmed and more than a bit intimidated by his intense gaze. The Cafe Bittner cakes were rich, and very very sweet, almost too sweet. How the pair of them could just wolf theirs down, I did not know. Each bite seemed to overwhelm me almost as much as Florian's presence.

>>She's a writer. She's going to teach me to how to write<< announced Katrin proudly.

>>Is it something you can teach, how to be a writer?<< Florian was still studying me. His stare was slightly more sideways than Ralf's, which was a bit unnerving. I had got used to the way that Ralf stared, direct, in a way that would be almost threatening from anyone else, but Florian's gaze seemed to look round corners, so that you knew you were being stared at, but couldn't quite tell from which direction.

Katrin just stared straight back at him, tipping her head to one side. >>What? Whatever do you mean, Uncle Flo?<<

>>Aren't great writers born, and not made?<< He was smiling that capricious crocodile smile, so it was hard to tell if he was serious or not. Katrin looked suddenly put out, as if she hadn't thought about this.

>>I don't think so<< I said in her defence. >>I think it is a craft like any other, that has to be honed. Like learning complicated German grammar<< I added with a faint smile, terribly aware of how poor my German was. >>Isn't musicianship the same? OK, maybe you were born with genius, Herr Schneider. But I know you still spent a very long time, mucking about with a flute, learning scales.<<

Florian's grin widened, as if he liked the compliment. He really was extraordinarily beautiful when he smiled, his eyes glinting. >>Music, I think, is different. Yes, one has to learn notation, fingering, technical things and so forth. But we all _talk_. <<

I shook my head, realising I had learned something very important over the past six months of working with Ralf. >>The key to writing isn't learning how to talk<< I said quickly. >>It's learning how to listen.<<

>>What? How?<< asked Katrin, sounding almost shocked by this new information.

For a moment, I actually forgot that this child had just tried to blackmail me not even twenty minutes ago, and found myself breathlessly trying to explain. >>To be a good writer, one really has to be a good _noticer_. One has to be able to observe, with all five senses. Look around you, but don't just see the cream coloured vinyl of the seats, touch them to feel the faint stickiness, how your flesh adheres to them, especially in warm weather. Listen to how people talk. Listen to the rhythm and accent of people's speech. And be sure to notice other things about your environment. All the time. Like, what does it smell like in here? Sugar and baking fat from the kitchen, that slightly burned smell of coffee... Taste? The sticky-sweet of the chocolate, but the faint sourness of the cream. Close your eyes, Katrin, and without looking, tell me... what colour is Uncle Florian's tie? <<

Florian laughed and decided to play along, picking up his napkin and covering the front of his shirt with it. Katrin squinted up her face as she closed her eyes. >>It's dark; either black or navy blue.<<

I laughed, and contradicted her. >>It's very dark green.<<

Florian grinned, clearly enjoying the game, as he finally lowered the napkin to reveal it, picking up the silk and examining it carefully. His hands were an old man's hands, the skin sallow and spotted, but his fingers were still long and elegant, with immaculately manicured nails. >>The amanuensis is correct. It is British racing green.<<

Katrin looked back and forth between us, slightly annoyed that she had got it wrong, but I could see something ticking over behind her eyes. Something I had just said seemed to have connected with her... or at least I hoped it had. >>I have just had an idea<< she said, polishing off the last of her cake, then taking a long draught of her hot chocolate. >>Maybe you should interview Uncle Flo... you know, for Papa's book.<<

I gaped at her boldness, then turned to apologise to Florian, as I very much got the sense that he was not someone one could ever approach directly for an interview. But he was still smiling, more amused than offended by the question. >>Now why should I be interviewed for someone else's autobiography, Katrin?<<

>>It's not an autobiography if she's writing it<< Katrin pointed out.

>>I'm not writing it<< I hedged. >>I'm transcribing it... facilitating it.<<

Florian started to laugh again, his deep rumbling laugh. It was an oddly sensual sound, in a way that Ralf's brief little pants were not. >>I have known Ralf longer than you have been alive, Fräulein Amanuensis, and I know exactly what that means. You are writing it, and he is saying 'yes, very good, I'll have that bit, thank you very much'. He has been doing this for years.<<

I looked at him very carefully, sensing an opportunity, then recklessly taking it. >>That's the kind of observation I could really do with. If you wanted to talk... I would love to hear what you had to say.<<

It was a mistake. Florian eyed me warily, his long neck pulling back from the table as his smile faded and his laughter seemed to dry up. But after an awkward minute of silence, during which I sipped at my rapidly cooling hot chocolate, he shrugged lightly and seemed to turn inwards upon himself. >>I have nothing more to say about my former partner or my former band that I haven't already said twenty years ago<< he muttered, than picked up his own cup of hot chocolate, to finish it. Then he turned around, and waved his hand towards the waitress. >>May I have the bill, please?<<

>>You're not going already, are you?<< asked Katrin, her face falling. >>I haven't seen you in ages.<<

>>Well<< said Florian, producing a credit card and handing it to the waitress before the bill even hit the table. >>You know where I live, Katrin. Come and see us some time. You are always welcome.<<

>>You won't tell my Papa?<< said Katrin warily.

Florian tapped the side of his nose. >>We don't tell your Papa anything.<<

The waitress brought a card payment machine, and Florian entered his details, leaving a tip that made her smile and bow. >>Thank you, Herr Schneider.<<

He picked up a leather briefcase-satchel thing that had been sitting on the seat beside him, but just as he seemed about to go, he stopped and turned to me. >>Maybe you should come and see us, too. Have you got a phone number, Fräulein Amanuensis?<<

>>Yes, of course<< I stuttered. Digging in my bag, I found a pen, then tore off a bit of the paper placemat, and wrote my name and phone number on it. I had no delusions at all that he was ever going to call me, let alone grant me an interview. But at least it seemed a start. >>My name is Kate. Kate Tremaine.<<

He glanced down at the number, then folded it and put it away in his wallet. Then, with a wide smile and deep bow for each of us, he made his exit, tipping his hat at the waitress as he went. I stared after him for some time, wishing I'd had more preparation, wishing I'd said more intelligent things, been more pro-active in the conversation, wishing I'd somehow thought of a way to prolong the contact. But he was gone, and I still wasn't entirely sure what had even happened.

>>There<< said Katrin, a little triumphantly, as she pushed aside her own plate, and helped herself to the excess icing that Florian had carefully removed from his cake. >>He likes you.<<

>>What on earth makes you say that?<< I stuttered.

>>He invited you to go and see him.<<

>>No, he didn't. He invited you to go and see him. It was only a maybe for me.<<

>>Will you tell Papa?<<

>>Will I tell your Papa what? That I met Florian, or that his daughter is a blackmailing little brat?<<

Katrin sulked. >>You're not still sore at me over that, are you? Even after I introduced you to Florian, and lined up an interview for you?<<

>>We will see<< I said carefully, finishing my hot chocolate. >>But for now, I am putting you on the first tram back to Krefeld.<<

>>Oh no, can't we go to the second-hand record shop on Wallstrasse first?<< Katrin begged, and I found myself somehow conceding. Well... I say concede. She simply decided that it was happening, and carried me along in her wake, much like her father, by sheer force of will.

Her sulk forgotten, she bounced up the road, and I found myself tugged by her ebullience into momentarily forgetting about her bad behaviour earlier, though I certainly had not forgiven her. We spent about twenty minutes in the shop, as she kept asking me about forgotten 80s groups, and I racked my brains trying to remember their hits. Actually, it was quite fun, as she kept telling me about various German bands, showing me her favourite albums by that punk band she'd been talking about, Durchaus! It was a real cross-cultural exchange. I didn't buy anything, but she bought a couple of CDs on the off chance, just because she liked the covers.

Although I had planned to put her straight back on the tram, she somehow begged and wheedled into going to the new CD shop, over on Schadowstrasse. To be honest, there was absolutely no reason that I had to accompany her, and yet I felt somehow compelled to keep an eye on her, knowing that she was not allowed to go to Düsseldorf unaccompanied. She laughed and told me she wasn't unaccompanied, since she was with me, and I felt too guilty to just leave her and go off. And besides, without my bicycle, I was really rather constrained as to how far I could go, so it was just as well to spend my afternoon browsing shops close to home. And in an odd way, I did actually enjoy it. Katrin was bight, and curious, and interested in everything, so it was quite fun spending time with her, even if I didn't trust her.

Finally, as the afternoon shadows started to grow longer, I took her to the U-bahn station and persuaded her onto the Krefeld tram. She grinned and threw her arms around me, surprising me with a hug. >>Thank you for the shopping trip! And thank you for being understanding about this morning<< she blurted out.

I stiffened, alarmed at the sudden imposition, but then tried to force myself to relax. >>Well. Thank you for bringing my bag back to me. Though, really, you should not have taken it from your father's car.<<

>>I know<< she said sulkily. >>I'm sorry.<< And as she spoke, the tram came, and she dashed off to catch it.

Feeling oddly conflicted, I made my way back up into the sunlight, and pulled out my phone, wondering what on earth I should tell her father now. I had just wanted to warn him... not even so much that Katrin was asking awkward questions, but about the far more alarming news that Jutta had been discussing the terms of a potential divorce with this mysterious friend on the phone. That alarmed me, and seriously. The more I thought about it, the more confused and disturbed I became. Especially after the casual way that Florian had remarked, "Ralf has spies on me, I have spies on him." It seemed that the hotbed of Klingklang gossip extended far beyond the actual doors, if he seemed perfectly aware of who I was, and what I was doing there. He had not blinked when Katrin had made her quip about me being her father's mistress; he had simply turned and looked at me long and hard, as if appraising me. That gaze suddenly took on a very different meaning in my head, as I climbed the stairs to my apartment.

But when I got back to my room, meaning to have a very serious conversation with Ralf, I took out my phone, and saw there was a text message from him. 'I am very sorry. I know you wished to have a telephone conversation with me, but I shall be out all tonight with my wife. I will text you tomorrow to arrange a better time.'

I stared at the phone, fearing the worst. Perhaps this was the evening that Jutta would choose, to confront him or to leave him. His missing presence overnight, that had to be some kind of crossed line. But then I tried to reason with myself. No, don't be ridiculous, I told myself. It was a fairly regular occurrence for Ralf and his wife to go out on a Saturday night. After all, that was why I normally spent the evening at Müller's local. But my jealousy, or my conscience, or whatever it was, simply would not let it rest.

I tried to make the best of the evening. Since it was an unseasonably mild, early spring evening, I grabbed my leather jacket and headed out to the Rhine to maybe have a drink. But hundreds of Düsseldorfers had had the same day, inspired by the warming spring air and the spectacular display of sunset and pink-purple clouds over the river, so the bars were too packed for me to get anywhere close to a drink. Instead, I walked up the river, past the Rathaus and the church with its crooked spire, past the Tonhalle, and just kept going, until I hit the Golzheim Rheinpark. I sat for a long time, on a bench overlooking the river, watching the faint afterglow in the West where the sun had gone down, then watching the lights slowly come on over the city. I felt suddenly awfully sad, with a foreboding that I would soon have to leave.

By the time I got home, I was exhausted. Although I was in good shape from cycling, walking so far was unusual, and my feet hurt, and unfamiliar muscles ached in the back of my legs. I collapsed into bed, and slept through straight until morning, and if I dreamed, thankfully I did not remember what about.

 

I woke up the next morning, and twitchily checked my phone, dying for some contact or word from Ralf, but there was nothing, no texts, and no emails. Trying to kill time as I ate my breakfast, I flipped my way idly through Tumblr. I checked my activity tab, and Katrin, it seemed, had left me alone, so I liked a couple of posts from my friends, added a couple of art posts to my queue. and reblogged a few photos of the previous evening's spectacular sunset from various Düsseldorf photo-blogs I had started to follow.

That, however, proved to be a mistake. My activity tab, which had been sleepy apart from the usual dribble of likes on my queued posts, suddenly lit up with notes again. Katrin, of course, going through and liking every single post I'd made since the last time I talked to her online. It was just such a blatant cry for attention that I started to feel resentful, and determined not to give it to her. It wasn't even that she liked my posts. It was Tumblr; she was free to like what she pleased. But it was the way that she didn't just like the posts in my queue sequentially, as they came up in real time; it was like she saved them up and leapt on me when she thought I was online. By the third or fourth time this had happened, I had got wise to what she was doing. I knew that like most kids of her generation, she was online pretty much 24-7, so it wasn't even like she was coming online after an absence and catching up. It felt like a deliberate exercise in surveillance, that she could tell when I was actually online, and she wanted me to _know_ that she could tell.

Sure enough, there was a direct message popping up now. I didn't even need to look to know who it was from.

'i like ur pics. the sunset last night was very pretty, yes?'

I stared at the text, feeling intensely conflicted. She wasn't a bad kid, really. She could be oddly charming and good company when she relaxed and stopped being quite so over-enthusiastic. But this kind of thing scared me a little, and I did not want to encourage any more of it by reinforcing her bad behaviour. One minute, I would be answering an innocent question on Tumblr, then that question would lead to another, more leading one, and then it would spiral until she would be sitting waiting for me outside my door, trying to blackmail me and then refusing to go home. I had to pull back from this thing, it was getting out of hand. I was not and could not be her mother, and I couldn't help the feeling that it was inappropriate to be her friend.

So I decided the best thing was to ignore it, returning to my dashboard and continuing to scroll through the weekend's traffic, liking a few photosets a friend had posted from a holiday in Orkney. But only a few minutes later, there was another message.

'u can't still be sore at me. i thought we talked about all that.'

I didn't even know how to answer that. It wasn't that I was sore; I just wanted some fucking space. But I was still thinking of how to phrase that in a less rude way, when a third, impatient message lined up below the other two.

'come on i know ur online. i can see ur liking posts. why you ignoring me? did u forget yesterday already? talk to me!'

I nearly dropped the phone, feeling completely exposed and vulnerable. It creeped me out, feeling like she was actually standing outside my flat again, keeping tabs on me, with the same sense entitlement she showed towards my online space. Slamming closed the Tumblr app, I locked the screen and set it quickly back down on the table. Really, I wanted to switch the whole thing off, but I didn't dare miss a phone call from Ralf. Thank god she didn't have my phone number; I didn't even want to know what the barrage of calls or texts would be like.

I was in a right state by the time Ralf finally rang, on Sunday afternoon, calling me from a Krefeld landline he rarely used. "So you found your bag and your phone after all," he said, sounding rather jovial.

"Well, someone found them _for_ me," I said rather pointedly, trying to think how to bring this up. I'd been obsessing over it all afternoon now, but still hadn't worked out quite how to raise the subject of his daughter's increasingly annoying behaviour. But then again, annoying wasn't the problem. I could deal with annoying. This had been crossing the line from annoying to disturbing.

But Ralf rattled on, completely oblivious to what had happened. "I'm glad to hear that. It pleases me when Germans are honest, and turn in lost property."

"Look, Ralf, are you alone?"

"Yes. I can speak freely." There was a slight pause, then he added. "And besides. It does not matter. My wife is not fluent in English."

"She isn't?" I was surprised by this information. "Then how did she read my..."

"She relies on Google Translate for the internet. She never properly learned English. Why would she? She grew up in East Germany. She learned Russian at school."

"But can anyone else in your house overhear you?" I continued to probe.

"I'm in my office," he assured me. "It is actually soundproofed, as I used to demo songs in here a long time ago. And the phone is a private line."

"Your room," I repeated, wondering if that was what Katrin had meant. "Do you sleep in there sometimes?"

"Yes, I do, when it is more convenient."

"Like on Saturday morning."

"Yes, I slipped in quietly and had a few hours' rest in here on Saturday." His voice was growing tighter, though I noticed he did not stop answering my questions.

I stared out my window at the Mannesmann Hochhaus, feeling the warmth of the sunlight, even through the glass. Really, I would have preferred to be out on the balcony in this weather, but I didn't want to be overheard by my landlord, or any of the neighbours. "So did anyone hear you come in at seven in the morning, after being out all night Friday night?"

There was an audible edge of irritation in his voice. "No, I don't think so. My wife did not mention it. When I emerged at noon, there was nothing to indicate I had not been there all night. It's not completely unusual for me to stay very late at Klingklang. If I'm out very late, I almost always sleep in the office, so I don't disturb her rest when I do come in."

"Your wife," I said quietly, dancing around the subject. "Is not the only other person in your house."

"No one else sleeps downstairs, but... Katrin?" he said, his voice abruptly changing. "Why would Katrin care, what time I was coming or going?"

"Ralf," I said, my voice almost cracking with nerves, feeling like a narc for ratting her out, but I felt like I needed to warn him somehow. "Katrin was the one who found my bag on Saturday morning."

"Katrin found your bag? Then how did you get it back..."

"Ralf, your daughter is not stupid. She has put two and two together. She knows you didn't come home until 7am. She found my bag in the back of your car. She knows damned well that you were with me all night. And if she knows, your wife surely has to know."

"No, don't be absurd. My wife has not so much as mentioned it. If she were going to say something, she had ample opportunity last night, but she was perfectly charming and relaxed. Everything was completely normal."

Jealousy reared inside me like a tide of bile as I realised what he was saying. He had been on a date with his wife the previous evening. Charming and relaxed? What was that supposed to mean? "I don't suppose you slept in your office last night, then," I shot back, before I fully realised what I was saying.

"It's none of your business, where I sleep in my own house." His voice was cold with fury, and as soon as he said it, I knew. He had made love to her last night. He had gone from my bed on Friday night to hers on Saturday. Even knowing that I was only his mistress, and had no desire to be anything else, that knowledge made me _ache_ inside. "And you still haven't answered my question, how did you get your bag back, if it was supposedly Katrin that found it?"

"Ralf, she appeared outside the door to my building with it, on Saturday morning, asking a lot of very impertinent questions about how it got into the back of your car."

"Now why would she do a thing like that?" Ralf demanded, sounding actually angry with me, as if he were accusing me of lying, or even worse, as if I were somehow accusing Katrin of lying.

"Because, my love," I confessed, feeling sick and sore and all torn up inside. "Because she has this developed this crazy teenage fantasy that you are going to leave the mother she resents, for me, and that I will be some punk-rock fairy stepmother that will sweep her off to London."

"And I am sure you have been encouraging her and feeding her with these absurd fantasies!" he snapped.

"Ralf," I cried, feeling both my voice and my heart breaking. "I have been trying to persuade her the exact opposite. I have been _lying_ for you. And you accuse me... you accuse me of... Christ, you don't even know me, do you?"

There was silence for such a long time on the other end that I almost thought he had hung up, but then I heard a soft breath and the sound of his body shifting. "You are telling me that my daughter went into Düsseldorf yesterday, even though she knows she is forbidden to travel there unaccompanied and without permission?"

"It is not the first time she has come," I confessed, my voice all a rush, desperately willing him to believe me. "The first time, I put her on the tram straight home. But this time... She had so many questions, Ralf. And threats, too, if I didn't tell her what she wanted to know. I don't think you understand the danger we are in, Ralf, now she suspects us. I had to gaslight your own daughter into not believing the evidence of her eyes and ears, Ralf. I hate doing it. I hate lying, and you are turning me into a liar."

"I see," he said, with a kind of finality to his voice, and there was another awkward silence. "You put me in an awkward position."

"It is not _me_ that has put you in this position," I pointed out testily.

"You put me in this position that first night you said yes, in Frankfurt Airport." His voice twisted with an emotion I could not quite recognise.

"Then why did you even ask me, Ralf? I'm not the one that's married. You are. You put us in this mess. And now... now... Are you just going to give me up?"

At that, his voice finally gave out. "No. I would not give you up for the whole world. But my daughter means more than the whole world to me. And now, you are asking me to choose between you, and my own daughter's innocence, her belief in her father as a good, moral man."

I was about to say that I did not put him in that position; that she had, the moment she picked my bag off the back seat and decided to bring it to me herself, with her demands and her threats. But then again, who was it who had carelessly left the bag there, without checking? We had grown careless. We had got stupid. And now it was his daughter who would be paying the price.

"I survived that knowledge, when my own father told me he was having an affair," I said, very slowly and very carefully. "And your daughter will, too. But it is up to you, to explain it to her, in a way that leaves her still able to respect you as a human being, even if she now knows that you are not infallible as a father. Because my own father sure dropped that ball."

"In more ways than one," said Ralf, his voice very thick with emotion. "Sometimes I think I am only here to be a father to you, in ways that your own father wasn't."

As soon as he said it, I realised it was true. "I love you," I said in a dead voice. "Though right now, I almost wish that I didn't."

"Do you really?" His voice was so tight, and I couldn't tell if it was anger or bitterness.

Panic abruptly gripped me, as jealousy and fear swirled around the inside of my head, wondering why he hadn't said it back. "Do you love me?"

"Of course I do," he sighed. "But I have to go now." And then he put the phone down without saying goodbye.


	16. Discovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ralf finally confesses to his affair with Katrin. And everything implodes, both in Krefeld, and at Klingklang.
> 
> And then Katrin gets a phone call that changes everything.

It was Katrin who made her feelings clear, rampaging across Tumblr later that night. I don't even know why I picked up my smartphone. I was just nervous and bored and unable to focus on anything, so I picked it up out of habit and refreshed my dashboard, and there she was, not on her own personal blog, but on Zeitpunkt, where she had to know that I would read it.

'IT'S NOT FAIR. IT'S JUST NOT FAIR. YOU LIED! I HATE YOU. I HATE HER. I HATE THEM. I HATE THEM ALL. THIS IS SO UNFAIR. ITS' EASIER IN GERMAN. SIE, SIE, SIE. I HATE ENGLISH AND I HATE HER. YOU LOOKED ME IN THE FUCKING EYE AND LIED, OVER AND OVER AND OVER AGAIN. IF JUST ONCE YOU'D TOLD ME THE TRUTH.

I closed my Tumblr app, but then opened it right back up again. Clicking on the reply button, I desperately tried to think of something to say, but whatever I could think to say would only make things worse. Perhaps I should just unfollow her, and let her work her anger out in whatever way she needed to. But as I clicked on her blog's icon to unfollow her, I saw that another post had come up.

This one was in German, slangy and full of abbreviations and teenspeak, but I got the general idea. She was furious, but didn't know who to be angrier with, her father, her mother, or me. I cringed inside, and yet I ached for her. She was just a kid, really, playing at being grown up. She had thought she could play three adults off each other, and had somehow triggered the end of the world.

Maybe it was a bad idea; maybe I should not have said anything. But it was my stupid sensitivity. I could not stand to see another human being in pain. Closing Tumblr, I opened up an email instead.

'I am sorry, Katrin. This is never the way I would have chosen for things to happen. I know that you are very angry, and you have every right to be angry. But the one thing I hope that you can take away from having known me, is that the thing to do with this anger is to take it, and to burn it for creative fuel. Write your way out of this. K'

Of course it was a bad idea to have written to her. She swung back almost immediately, lashing out at me.

'how DARE you tell me what i feel right now. i have a real problem with people TELLING me what i'm thinking when what they're telling me i'm thinking is the worst possible interpretation of my motives for behaviour and makes me out to be completely crazy. i have had enough in my life of people doing that, whether they are trying to or not. i have a long history of people using my asperger's and my mental health as an excuse to have a go at me and then excuse anything they do because "LOL ur insane anyway, what do you know about whether or not i'm hurting you." you do not know that. it's unfair for you to react as if you do.'

'Katrin, believe it or not, I do not actually think you're crazy. I think you're very angry, and very hurt. I deeply regret my part in that hurt. But your father and I never intended our actions to hurt you. If anything, we were selfish and simply did not think how those actions would affect anyone else. But I know that you are bright, and you are talented, and you will find a way through this hurt. I urge you to write; it is the best way to get through these things. Now I really have to go. K'

If I had thought that would be the end of it, my god, it was like the floodgates had opened. Her next email went on and on and on, for half a dozen paragraphs, accusing me of lying to her, accusing me of wrecking everything, of leading her on and then letting her down. Sure, some of that I had to take responsibility for - yes, I fully admitted I had lied to her once, about not having an affair, but honestly, I had lied in response to her attempt to blackmail me! What else was I supposed to do?

But as I continued to read the email, the one thing that became increasingly clear was that she had somehow become very, very invested in this idea that her parents were going to divorce, and that after the divorce, she would live with her father, and therefore, with me. She had built up this whole fantasy of the life we would have together, which had come crashing down upon Ralf's confession, as her 'swine of a mother' had shut down that possibility with a single statement that if they did divorce, she would sue for sole custody of Katrin, sneering that Ralf >>couldn't even look after a cat.<<

I read with horror, as she continued, wondering how on earth she had constructed so much from the little contact we had had. And I was terrified at how angry she was, now that this fantasy was under threat. She wanted me to reassure her, that I would ask Ralf to file for custody. I didn't know how to get through to her that I would - that I _could_ \- do no such thing.

'Katrin, I do not know why you have assigned me such power, over your life, and over your father. That frightens me, to be honest. I did not ask for the capacity to sit upon your family in judgement, and I refuse to accept that responsibility. I am not your mother, and I will never be your step-mother. I do not understand why you choose to assign that role to me in the first place. I am sorry that you have chosen to construct this fantasy around someone that you barely know, but I want no part in it. I urge you to write through your feelings. I do think that that is a constructive way of coping. But for you to try to continue to force upon me a role I do not want; I wish for that to end.'

I hated myself for writing it, but there was no nice way of saying it. I hit send, then I closed the app and decided not to read any more. 

 

The next morning, I had to walk all the way up the Rhine promenade, and catch the tram into Klingklang from the stop by the Kunstakademie. It had been months since I'd made this journey by tram, and had almost forgotten which number to take. It was slow, unwieldy, and stopped too often, and I could not wait to get my bike back. But then my stomach did a little flip-flop. Getting my bike back meant seeing Ralf, and really, I had not thought this through. How on earth would I handle this, seeing him again after all that had happened? Then I thought of Florian, and wondered who in Klingklang was the spy. I couldn't face it. But I _needed_ my bike back.

I got off at the stop for Klingklang with a heavy heart, slowing down as I walked across the parking lot towards the building. Really, I wanted to dawdle, to walk around the lake behind the office complex, to put off the moment of truth as long as possible. But Ralf's car was not in its space, and his bike was not in the rack.

I slipped in quietly, not even stopping off in the ladies' room, and made sure that Ralf was not in yet with a brief reconnoitre of upstairs. Not many people were in at all, but I stuck my nose into Müller's workshop, and fortunately she was about.

>>So did Graciella get off on her flight alright?<< I asked, grateful for another subject to distract me.

>>Yeah, I put her on the plane yesterday. She should be home by now...<< Müller glanced at her watch and made a face.

>>Do you miss her yet?<< I teased.

Müller frowned. >>I tell you what, my house is really boring without her around.<<

>>You guys are so cute<< I told her, but her frown didn't lift.

>>To be honest, it's all happened so fast.<< She paused for a while, toying with a loose screw in an old-fashioned circuit board, then looked up at me. >>Tell me the truth, Kate. I trust you. Do you think we're making a mistake, with this marriage thing?<<

I shrugged, completely unsure of my expertise to be making such a call. >>Do you love her?<<

>>Course I do<< she replied, without a moment's hesitation, but then her smile turned slightly sour as she poked at her electronics. >>But there's love, and then there's life. When I'm with her, it's like... Everything is fine. I feel like there is not one single problem that we can't overcome. Together, we are invincible. But once she's gone... Wow. It feels... insurmountable. The Kunstakademie. Student Visas. Civil Partnerships. Health insurance. Residency permits. Paperwork like you would not believe. I just look at the forms I have to download and fill out and return to the Standesamt, and think, what the fuck have we let ourselves in for.<<

I smiled wryly, thinking she had no idea. Paperwork was nothing; there could be an over-obsessive fifteen year old daughter involved. >>Look, however complicated it is, if there's anyone that can sort this shit out, it's you and Gracie. You'll be fine. You love each other, so you'll find a way.<<

>>God I hope so.<< She tried another go at the screwdriver, but the screw wobbled out of her grip and went clattering across the table onto the floor. >>Shit.<<

>>Do you want a coffee?<< I offered. For some reason, I had the mad idea that meeting up with Ralf would be easier if I had back-up.

>>Super. I could do with a vape, too.<<

We went out to the kitchen together, made hot drinks, then sat outside on the fire escape, chatting away as I sipped my tea and she pulled on her vape-stick. Talking to Müller was always so easy, the two of us just slipped so easily into a steady rhythm, especially now that I had struck up my own friendship with Graciella. We talked about places she wanted to take her, movies she wanted to show her, discussing whether or not she might enjoy this or that band they might go and see some time. Normally, I found it vaguely irritating when my friends hooked up, and no longer wanted to talk about anything except their new partner. But for me, this was a welcome distraction from my own problems, to try to think over Müller and Graciella's problems.

When we clattered back into the kitchen, our break over, I glanced up the stairs to see that the light in Ralf's office was still not on. That was unusual, as it was growing late. I started to walk back along the corridor with Müller towards her workshop, when abruptly, Gudrun appeared, looking at me with undisguised surprise.

>>Kate! I was not expecting to see you in today.<<

>>Why not? I do... uh, well... I do work here.<<

She looked at me blankly. >>But Ralf is not in today. He has called in sick. I'm sorry, but this means there is nothing for you to do.<<

>>He called in sick?<< I repeated limply. Digging in my bag, I fished out my phone, but there was still nothing. No text message since the last one he had sent me, on Saturday night. Nothing in my email. A howling void, where I was used to half a dozen messages a day.

>>Wow<< said Müller. >>He must really be ill. I've been here, what? Seven? Eight years? He has never called in sick a day in his life.<<

>>Well, he is not here. You should probably go home<< said Gudrun, and at that moment, I knew that it was a lie, and she knew it was a lie, though she did not want Müller to know. Something in the tone of her voice bothered me, like she was not my boss, and she had no right to dismiss me.

I was going to raise my voice and object, mostly on the point that I needed my damned bike, and I couldn't get home without it. But something made me hold my tongue. Leaving my bike on the back of Ralf's car suddenly seemed incriminating, the same way my bag on his back seat had. And Florian's words had shifted something in my head, made me feel suspicious, even paranoid about my co-workers, knowing that at least one of them was already a spy. So instead I shrugged, and asked >>Is Günter in? I think I might go and talk to him for a bit.<<

>>Suit yourself<< said Gudrun, and gestured back towards his office, as she made her way back to the ladies' room.

Even as I went and knocked on his door, I wasn't sure why I was going. But I knocked, and called out my name when he asked who it was.

>>Sure, come in, Kate. It's open<< he called back. I walked in, and closed the door behind me, to find him boxing up merchandise for mail order. >>What can I do for you?<<

I picked up a returned T-shirt and started fiddling with it, folding it and refolding it, remembering how happy I had been to receive a Kraftwerk shirt, the very first afternoon I had visited. >>Günter, you're my line manager, yes? And also... well, my advocate, if I have any problems at work. Right?<<

>>Well, it's just a formality, really. You know this is a small, family business. If you have any problems, you know you can always talk to whoever you like. We like to resolve our problems peacefully, informally.<< He said this with a cheerful smile, as if he were reassuring a new recruit. >>Here, can you help me out a bit? Put these stamps on those packages there. The postage is written on each.<<

I picked up the first of the packages, and sorted through the postage stickers until I found the right amount, as I searched mentally for the question I wanted to ask. >>Günter, please be frank with me. If I were to be... I don't know what the German is. 'Made redundant' in English. Fired. From Klingklang. What would my options be?<<

Günter looked genuinely perplexed. >>What on earth would you be fired for? I've heard you've finished the first draft, and Der Chef is very happy with it.<<

>>Not for my work. For personal reasons?<<

At that, he looked slightly alarmed. >>No, this is not our way. If he was displeased with someone, we would have discussed it. The last person to be sacked was... let me think... no, it was Abrantes. And everyone knew that was coming. He did not get along with Der Chef. You get along well with everyone, as far as I can see. Der Chef is completely happy with you, and that is the important thing.<< As he turned and handed me the last of the stickers I caught a slight smirk to his eyes, as if there were laughter behind his words.

>>What if he suddenly... stopped liking me.<<

Abruptly, his face uncharacteristically grew tense, and I could see his jaw suddenly set. He had to know what I was talking about, without my having to spell it out. I could not believe that Gudrun had not enlightened him as to her suspicions. >>Kate, I am here to advise you only in professional matters. Personal matters are beyond the... scope of my oversight. Your personal relationship with Der Chef is your own concern. We have only one professional concern here, and that is to keep Der Chef happy.<<

I stared back at him, trying to process what he was saying. It wasn't that I couldn't understand the German; I got that perfectly clear. I was slowly realising that, despite the display Ralf had made with my contract, if he got the hump with me, I had no legal recourse. Slowly, I labelled the last of the packages, and threw it into the mailbag. I had to push it; I couldn't just let him leave it like that. >>So if he ended my professional contract, because of a personal matter...?<<

Gunter avoided my gaze, gathering up the drawstrings of the mailbag. >>Look. I would make sure that everything was done correctly. That you were treated legally, and fairly, and that you were paid what you were owed. But beyond that, I'm sorry, I can't help you. Now would you excuse me. I've got to get this to the mail-drop.<<

>>Is there anything else I can help with...<< I gestured vaguely around the office.

>>Thank you, no. We are done for the day. You can go home.<< Opening the door, he waited for me to go through it.

But defiantly, instead of turning to go out, I made my way back to Müller's workshop, mainly because I had left my coat and my bag in there. But Müller was busy now, deeply engaged in re-soldering the circuit board, now that she had unscrewed it from the machine. Although she didn't object to my presence, she seemed disinclined to talk, so I did my best to draw her out again with desultory comments about the weather, the spring, wondering if the windows opened, before finally clasping at straws. >>You'll never guess who I ran into, at the weekend.<<

>>Who<< she muttered, through a mouthful of solder.

>>Flo<< I said casually, and she paused in her work, glancing up at me. >>Big Flo<< I corrected, remembering they shared a name. >>Florian Schneider.<<

That suddenly got her attention, as she put the soldering iron to one side and carefully removed the wire she was holding between your teeth. >>Where did you see him?<< she asked, and though she was trying to sound casual, I noticed her voice was slightly tight.

>>At Otto Bittner's. He bought me cake and a glass of hot chocolate.<<

>>You spoke to him?<< She sounded surprised.

>>Yes.<< Diplomatically, I decided to leave out the part about Katrin introducing us. >>He seemed to know exactly who I was.<<

>>Well... I'm not really surprised. Düsseldorf is very small, you were bound to run into one another sooner or later.<<

It seemed like an odd non-sequitur, and I noticed abruptly that she hadn't addressed the fact that he seemed to know who I was at all. >>Do you ever see him?<<

>>From time to time<< she said cagily.

>>And I suppose you keep him updated on the comings and goings at his old studio.<< My voice was perhaps a little more accusatory than I had intended, but I felt a sudden chill. I had trusted Müller implicitly, considered her a friend. I didn't want to think of her spying on her colleagues, but Florian's words had made me paranoid, doubting even my closest friends.

Müller let out a deep sigh, sitting back on her stool, crossing her arms across her chest and staring at me carefully. >>Flo worked at Klingklang longer than I have been alive. He no longer has a financial interest in the organisation, but you can understand that he might, still, have somewhat of a sentimental interest.<<

>>So _you're_ his spy << I said, feeling all the hairs standing up on the back of my neck.

>>Spy? Come on, it's nothing like that. He and Hütter don't talk. You know that. They cut one another dead after he quit. But he is still a human being He still has... just ordinary human curiosity about his former colleagues and their lives.<<

>So why did he need to know about me? He's never met me before in his life<< I protested.

>>I just told him you were working on Hütter's book. I didn't tell him you were banging Hütter<< Müller shrugged.

>>Müller!<< I shrieked.

>>Oh, come off it.<< She seemed suddenly slightly angry. >>When are you going to stop pretending we don't all already know?<<

>>How can you know? I have not said anything... it's all just rumours and... Oh god, what did Graciella tell you?<<

>>Come on, it was not Graciella, though she was perceptive enough to recognise what was going on, straight away. We have all noticed how you slope off together whenever we go cycling. We all saw you leave together on Friday night, and it was obvious what you were going off to do. Do you think we don't notice that you and he lock yourselves up in his room, banging the furniture about for twenty minutes, an hour, until finally his shower clicks on? It's obvious what you are up to, up there, and it's insulting for me to have to pretend I don't know. Gudrun even jokes about having to get a special cleaner to get the smell of sex out of that leather sofa.<<

I gaped at her, feeling my stomach churn with anxiety. Gudrun. Of course. Gudrun had even tried to warn me that we were getting careless, but I had been too deep into the affair to heed her words. >>Who else have you told?<<

>>Don't worry. Everyone's been discreet. No one around here is a massive fan of Jutta, and everyone is so loyal to Ralf they just want him to be happy, so it's not left the building... But you two have not been exactly discreet _in_ the building. <<

I stared at her, feeling my whole life slipping out of my fingers. >>Well, it seems someone else told Jutta yesterday. And I have an awful feeling that's why Ralf isn't in today.<< Although I desperately wanted to spill all of my fears and anxieties towards a friendly ear, I cut myself off sharp. If Müller was Florian's spy, it just wasn't safe to talk to her. Oh god, how I needed someone to talk to.

>>Shit<< swore Müller, as I could see the full meaning of what I'd told her start to dawn across her face.

>>What do I do?<< I whimpered, putting my hand into my hair. I desperately needed a haircut, so my fringe was starting to get tangled.

>>Go home<< said Müller, very softly. >>Kate, I say this as your friend. But perhaps the best thing is to go home and start packing. He has his first draft, right? The publishing company will have editors and stuff, won't they? You should go, before this gets ugly. And if Jutta finds out, this will get ugly.<<

>>I don't want to just leave, without saying... Oh god. I can't face Gudrun, can't face the guys, knowing they know. I gotta get out of here.<<

>>You can email me<< said Müller. >>Not on my Klingklang account. Use my gmail, you still have it, right?<<

I stared at her for a moment, then nodded. Walking over to her, I pushed the soldering iron out of the way, then hugged her quickly, and fled upstairs. I went to my desk, to the little, tiny closet-like office I almost never used any more, and emptied out my things. I had accumulated very few personal items at work, only a few rebellious blue gel-pens and a tube of hand lotion. I took a Klingklang notebook, just for a souvenir, then looked at my computer. Technically, that belonged to Ralf, but I was taking it, and the phone. There was a jumper I'd brought for chilly days, and that was it. The sum total of belongings I'd accumulated at Klingklang.

Shouldering my bag, I slipped downstairs again. In the kitchen, there was a box of English tea I'd brought back after Christmas, but I decided to let that stay. Then I looked about, trying to force the place into my memory. For a moment, I wondered if I should turn in my ID badge, but doing so would just raise too many questions I didn't want to answer. I decided to keep it; they could cancel it if they wanted to revoke my access. I slipped out of the building before anyone could stop me, and jogged for the tram. Damn, there were a couple of people I did want to say goodbye to, Falk especially, but it was too late to think of that now.

I caught the tram easily, and flung myself into the single seat at the end, not wanting to even exchange so much as an 'entschuldigung' with anyone else. Pulling out my phone, I checked Tumblr before I could even think of the reason I was not doing that any more. But to my surprise, it was oddly quiet. Nothing more from Katrin. Uncharacteristically, she had not replied to my last email. In fact, when I went back to look through my dashboard, even her previous posts were gone. Perhaps she had thought better of them and deleted them.

But as I looked through my settings, I saw that I was down one follower, and in fact, the number of blogs I was following had also gone down by one. I tried to click through to Zeitpunkt, but it looked like Katrin had blocked me. And I knew even before I checked that her personal blog had stopped following me. Conflicting emotions rumbled through me. Sure, on one level, I wasn't even going to pretend that I wasn't somehow relieved, especially after those last few emails. I had already started to get anxiety attacks at even the thought of opening up my activity tag and seeing another run of her attention-tagging. But on another, deeper level, I just felt awful that this whole thing seemed to have gone so wrong. Katrin was just a mixed-up kid, you know? I had not meant to rip her world apart. I had not meant to rip anyone's world apart.

I didn't respond. I just closed down Tumblr. Although I desperately needed someone to talk to, I knew that I wasn't going to find anyone there.

By the time I got home, I felt absolutely beside myself. I called out Karlheinz's name, but he wasn't in. Well, I didn't really know how to explain why I was leaving to him, either. I wondered if Ralf would demand a refund on my rent if I left before the term was up, but then thought, that was Klingklang's business, not mine.

Tossing my phone onto the desk, I felt oddly reproved by its silence. But I looked about my room, the clothes I had laundered yesterday still drying by the window, and wondered how to go about dismantling my life. But just as I was pulling my suitcase down from on top of the wardrobe, my phone started to ring.

Withheld number. My stomach lurched, and for a moment I considered letting it go to ansaphone, but then again, if it was Ralf, I couldn't risk it. I picked it up and said >>Hallo?<<

"Is this the English woman, Kate?" Definitely not Ralf, but though the man spoke in English, he had a heavy German accent. I didn't immediately recognise the voice, but still, familiarity tugged at my sleeve, like I should know it. "Kate Tremaine?"

"This is Kate speaking, yes." I felt completely flummoxed, but didn't dare enquire further, looking about the rubble of my room and wondering how I was going to fit it all in one suitcase. To avoid facing it, I turned to the window and stared out at the Mannesmann Hochhaus, thinking how much I was going to miss this view.

"I have been thinking about our little conversation. My wife thinks I should perhaps speak with you. Informally, of course. Off the record, as they say."

As I glared at the Hochhaus, I felt more and more flummoxed. Was this someone from Klingklang, taking the piss? "I'm sorry, but who is this?"

"Ah! Es tut mir leid! Sorry, sorry, here speaks Florian." When I did not reply, he added, "Florian Schneider. We met on Saturday?"

I could have kicked myself. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry," I blurted out all in a rush. "I did not recognise your voice. Herr Schneider, of course. So... You will talk to me? An interview? For the book, or..."

"No, no, no. Not an interview. I dislike interviews," he replied very quickly, and I felt I had put my foot in it badly.

"I'm sorry," I stuttered. "I did not mean to presume."

"Never mind, never mind. But I think we should talk. Just a talk. Off the record, of course. But a nice talk. Will you come round tomorrow? For breakfast, maybe? I get up about 11, so will you come by for noon?"

I could hardly believe what I was hearing. "Tomorrow, noon... sure. But come by, where?"

He laughed, that reassuring deep belly rumble. He told me an address, in Central Düsseldorf, almost comically near the old Klingklang, then repeated the invitation. "Come by at noon. We will see you then."

"OK," I stuttered, but he had put the phone down before I could even respond.

Well, I thought to myself, staring out at the Mannesmann Hochhaus. Tomorrow I would be meeting with the son of the creator of that thing. I guessed leaving Düsseldorf could wait another day. Pushing the suitcase out of the way, I sat down at my desk and started going through my notes. If he didn't want to be interviewed, then what did Florian want to talk to me about? Well, the book of course. There was so many things I'd wanted to confirm with him, places where I had suspected that Ralf's memory was either fuzzy, or else slightly biased. Could I find those places again? Either way, it gave me something to do to take my mind off the howling void where Ralf's texts and emails should have been.

Opening my browser, I cycled through my yahoo email, Twitter and Tumblr almost by habit. Looking at beautiful artwork on Tumblr seemed to calm me a little, so I flicked through, feeling slightly less exposed there, now that I knew Katrin was no longer following me.

But wouldn't you just know it. About thirty seconds after I had liked some Art Nouveau architecture and added it to my queue, my follower count went up by one. I didn't even need to check who it was, before the icon changed to let me know I had a new DM. Katrin. Who else?

'are you there?'

I did my best to ignore it, but she was incredibly persistent, as it was quickly joined by a second message.

'we NEED to talk'

I took a deep breath and pressed my fingertips against my temples, trying to think how to handle this. Finally, I opened up my email, and started to type, trying to remain calm, and transmit that calmness into my words.

'Katrin, I wish to state this first, categorically: I bear you no ill will, I think you are a phenomenally talented young person, and I wish you al the success that you clearly deserve. But I want *this* to stop. I can't handle being in contact with you right now, with everything that is going on in your family, and I don't imagine that it's very healthy for you, either. I am very sorry things have to end this way, but I don't think we should talk any more. It is inappropriate, in the light of what has happened. I cannot force you to stop looking at my social media. I can only ask you to stop trying to interact with me. If you continue to try to contact me, I will block you. If you need to talk to someone, please talk to your therapist, or your family, or anyone that isn't me. I will not be communicating with you again after this email. Now goodbye.'

I read it over a few times, trying to tone down any emotion, then hit send. She went very quiet after that, even as my finger hovered over the block button for a few minutes. But there was no reply, and I thought perhaps she had got the message. Alas, as I clicked my way through a few more soothing art blogs, I realised that she had only been typing. A massive message hit my inbox, this one in German.

>>please talk to me. i'm scared. after i spoke to you yesterday, my parents had a huge argument. in my papa's office so i couldn't hear what they were saying, but i could hear that they were mad. really mad. i've never hard my papa raise his voice like that. my mama left yesterday evening, and she didn't come back. not last night. not this morning. my papa went out early this morning and he hasn't come back either. i'm so scared. i didn't even go to school today, and there's no one here to even yell at me for cutting class. i always thought that when my parents split up, it would be the biggest relief. but now i'm just scared. there's no one to talk to. what if they've both left. what if this is all my fault. please don't you walk out on me now, too. i don't know what i'll do. i'm so scared. wait, someone's come home. i gotta go, it's my aunt calling me. PLEASE write back. katrin<<

I hit the block button in a blind panic, then closed my email, not even knowing what else to do. I couldn't talk to her. I had done enough damage... and _she_ had done enough damage. A wave of anger suddenly swept me. If she had just kept her little mouth shut... no, that wasn't fair. If I'd just kept my fucking legs shut. I had not thought of how our actions would cascade out across Ralf's family. I had not thought at all. But how on earth was I supposed to be held responsible for the bizarre fantasies she had wrapped around me? How was I responsible for the spell she seemed to have cast on herself?

Wrenching my eyes back to the manuscript, I did my best to continue to pick through it, jotting down things I wanted to address in the only notebook I had to hand - the Klingklang branded notebook, unfortunately. It would have to do. Reading through the manuscript oddly calmed me. Writing was one thing I could almost always focus on, no matter how upset I was. And the Ralf splayed out on the page was far easier to deal with than the one who had been splayed across my bed a few days ago. What had we been thinking, coming to my flat? It was the one place we always avoided... Wait. No. Don't think of that subject, don't open that door or go down that mental path. Ralf's autobiography. The inert, anaesthetised, dissected Ralf spread out in a word document. That Ralf, I could deal with, could reduce him down to facts and figures and confirmable historical events. This was the only Ralf I would deal with from now on.


	17. Florian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katrin finally manages to be invited for an audience with her favourite Kraftwerker.

I woke late the next morning. I never normally went into Klingklang on a Tuesday, so I never used the alarm anyway. Usually a morning text from Ralf shook me out of bed, but my phone was still empty. No more messages. Katrin's message tugged at my conscience, as I wondered if Ralf, or indeed Jutta had returned. But no. All I had to go on was the garbled slangy German message of a teenager I now knew to be a manipulative fantasist. I knew now I could trust nothing that came from Katrin.

Instead, I got up, had a small meal and took a shower, then set down to trying to figure out what to wear to my meeting with Florian. One thing I had realised from my abortive attempt at packing the previous afternoon, was how my clothes had changed over the past few months. Most of the clothes I'd brought with me were too big, but still, they looked like _my_ clothes, colourful blues and greens and purples, often in swirly or textured patterns. All of the newer, smaller clothes I'd bought since I got to Düsseldorf were all black, or very dark charcoal grey. Clothes that fitted in well at Klingklang. Well... clothes that pleased Ralf. And although I had hoped they had looked chic and arty, compared to my old clothes, they looked decidedly drab and plain.

I picked up a mallard green silk shirt I hadn't worn in months, and slung it round my shoulders. Of course it was too big, but in the warm spring air, it actually felt quite nice to wear loose clothing. There was a tie to match, a Liberty tie with a swirling psychedelic pattern of ferns and spring flowers. A now-oversized brown tweed waistcoat with a subtle greenish stripe completed the sort of Annie Hall look. Underneath, I wore newer black trousers and my habitual Chelsea Boots, but I felt oddly comforted looking in the mirror and seeing someone I felt I had not seen since last year. Myself, my bright, unruly self; not the drab Klingklang employee that Ralf had wanted me to be.

A horrible phrase came back from a quote that one of Ralf's vindictive former bandmates had used to describe him: 'the girls he had, he would try to change their personality so they were how he wanted them to be. This would work a little while until the moment the girl realised what was happening and left him.' Had Ralf been trying to change me? I had never been consciously aware that that was what had been happening, but I had changed. Turning away from the mirror, I picked up my bag and walked out, pulling the door firmly closed behind me.

Without my bicycle, I had lost track of how long it took to walk across the centre of Düsseldorf, so I left half an hour to get across to Florian's townhouse. It took only twenty minutes, so I walked around the block, found myself drawn to Mintropstrasse, walking into the cool of the interior courtyard and sitting there for a few minutes, trying to think about Kraftwerk. The Kraftwerk I had idealised as a fan, when I first came to Düsseldorf, not this small corporation I now found myself a soon-to-be-fired employee of. The old building was so small, compared to the complex out near Krefeld. And so old-fashioned, with the external pipes and the pegged-up electric cables running all over the face of the building. There was something so quaint and home-made about it, like a tiny cottage industry, compared to the shiny glass corporate headquarters they inhabited now.

Finally, I took a deep breath and headed back to Florian's house. I stood on the doorstep for quite some time, gathering courage as I watched the second hand of my phone's clock sweep round to noon on the dot. And then I punched the button, and awaited my fate.

The electronic eye buzzed to life, its lens adjusting as it focused in on me. >>Who is it?<< asked a woman's disembodied voice.

>>I'm Kate. I believe I am expected?<<

>>Of course. Please come up. Stairs are on the left.<< The door buzzed, then clicked, and I had to hurry to catch it. Suddenly I was inside. There was a neutral grey corridor leading back into the house, a couple of doors off the right, and then a staircase, as instructed, with stairs leading down to the right, and up to the left. I took the left hand stairs, and climbed, the dark staircase opening up as it twisted round and then led me into a wide, open plan room.

A small, immaculately dressed woman approached, and offered her hand. I smiled nervously back to her welcoming smile, and shook, studying her carefully. She was beautiful, and very elegant, and it was quite impossible to gauge her age. Was she Florian's wife? His daughter? She was wearing a chic, designer-looking dress in contrasting stripes of orange and fuchsia, with a turmeric yellow cardigan over the top, quite a contrast to the austere, silver and grey decor, but still, she looked as if she belonged to the house.

>>Welcome. Flo has only just got out of the shower, but I think he wants to have breakfast on the deck upstairs.<<

>>Oh god, am I early?<< I stuttered, checking my phone. He had said, noon, hadn't he?

>>No, you're on time. Flo is always late. Can I offer you some coffee? Or, I can make tea, if you'd prefer.<<

>>No, no, coffee is fine. I haven't had a decent cup of tea since I got to Germany, so I've learned to drink coffee.<<

"You're British, aren't you?" she said, switching to English, in an American accent that still had a faint Boston twang.

"Yes, I'm from London," I explained nervously. "Though I lived in New York for a very long time."

"I'm originally from Boston," she said, with a smile that was clearly meant to put me at ease, gesturing for me to follow her up another, much wider and more spacious set of stairs.

"We shan't talk about baseball, then," I quipped, just trying to cover my nerves.

"Oh, I'm still Red Sox, all the way," she laughed. "Please tell me you're not Yankees."

"Mets, actually," I explained. "They were given to me, as a kind of joke. When I first moved to New York City, I worked in a big record shop. Someone came in, trying to promote the team by giving away free passes. As a joke, they sent him to the English girl, who didn't have a clue. He offered me tickets to see the Mets if I'd sign up for his promotion, and I blithely asked him, 'what's a Met?' It kind of stuck."

She broke into giggles. "Did you go?"

"Nah, I'm not so into sport," I shrugged.

"You must find Ralf difficult, then," she laughed, the first acknowledgement that she knew what I was here to do.

"Not really, no," I said, and was shocked to find it was the truth, but I stopped speaking as we reached the top of the stairs, and emerged into a wide, spacious kitchen, with a communal eating area that opened out, through glass doors, into a huge outdoor deck. "Wow," I said, letting a sigh escape my lips as I resisted the urge to go and press my nose against the glass. It was very beautiful, painted in a subtle mix of various greys that highlighted the minimal features, and very expensive-looking in an understated sort of way. It was clear that Florian would never not be an architect's son.

"So what are you into, then?" she chirped, as she located two coffee cups - in bright, bold, abstract patterns of red, yellow and black - and started to pour. "Music, I suppose? You're a writer, though, aren't you?"

"Well, I sort of fell into writing by accident. Music is my passion, yes, but I'm a computer programmer by trade." I don't know what made me say that. I suppose I had just spent the previous evening thinking about what I was going to do when I got back to England, if I was going to beg for my old job back.

"Milk and sugar?"

"Yes, please. One lump."

"What kind?"

I glanced down at the dish of raw sugar cubes. "Erm, brown is fine."

"No, I meant what kind of computer programmer."

"Data analyst. Boring number-crunchy stuff." But as I took the coffee cup from her, she brightened.

"My Dad, you know, was a math professor at MIT. He was very into number-crunching. Do you use Hadoop?"

"I know of it, but it's not my speciality. I do SQL, and SAS BO BI, if those acronyms mean anything to you..." I could hardly believe I was having this conversation, but I recognised that it was lovely of her to try to put me at ease.

"Oh, they do indeed," she laughed. "You should talk to my Dad... oh hang on, here's Flo, at last." She switched seamlessly to German. >>Hello dear! Your writer is here.<<

>>Do I smell coffee?<< he asked, moving into view as he came down yet another, even more spindly and designer-looking set of stairs. The house seemed to go on forever. I couldn't quite remember if we were on the second or third floor, but I caught a glimpse of several layers of banisters above. But then Florian caught sight of me, and bowed stiffly. "Good afternoon," he said, rather formally, though his smile was quite mischievous.

"Coffee is on the hob," said the woman - his wife, presumably, from the way she touched him tenderly and pecked him with a kiss - and got up, as the pair of them had a brief discussion of breakfast plans.

"Do you like eggs, Katie?" he called back across the room.

I bristled slightly at the nickname, as not one of Kraftwerk seemed able to get my name right, but honestly, Florian Schneider could call me whatever he liked. "I do."

"Dairy? Milk, butter and... such things? I'm afraid we lead a vegetarian lifestyle here." Florian Schneider was now digging through their enormous fridge, pulling out eggs, milk, butter, and some unidentifiable herbs.

"I am vegetarian. Though it's not easy in Germany," I explained.

"Tell me about it," laughed Sandhya. "I lived here three years before I discovered you could buy Tofu at the little supermarkets in Japandorf. I take it you two will be aright? I really am going to be late if I stay."

I threw her a panicked look. I had liked her immediately, and I felt slightly alarmed to realise that she was not going to stay and facilitate the discussion with her terrifying partner. "Of course. Thank you for... well, thank you," I stuttered.

"So lovely to meet you!" And then she breezed out, with a kiss for her partner and a wave for me, leaving me to stare at Florian as he took down a brightly striped apron from the back of a door, and wrapped it around his slightly protruding belly. He was wearing expensive looking pale blue silk slacks, a bright teal shirt, open at the neck, and a very soft looking cotton jumper over the top, in a discreet shade of blueish grey that matched his decor. With a start, I realised how different Florian's and Ralf's aesthetics were. Compared to Ralf's austere, black clothes, always identical, day after day, Florian was a decadent aesthete in his flamboyantly coloured suits.

"So," announced Florian, as I fell into intimidated silence. "I make Ruhreier mit Kraus. Does that sound good to you?"

I gaped, as I realised that he actually intended to cook for us both. "Erm, super. I have heard that you are a wonderful cook."

"Well..." Here he smiled sheepishly, his handsome face crinkling up with pleasure. "I do my best. I enjoy cooking. I find it very relaxing. And, also... I like to eat the best." His grin was very infectious, and I found myself smiling back. "What else have you heard?"

"Oh, the usual. Terrible driver, wonderful cook, oh, and you're always late for everything." Abruptly, I stopped myself, wondering if I'd overstepped some line with this sudden joking, but Florian's smile did not waver, even as he rolled his eyes.

"Yes, I wonder where you have heard this." He made an extravagant gesture with his wide shoulders that was somehow much more than a shrug.

But then I decided to take the bull by the horns. He couldn't exactly throw me out as his hands were full of eggshells. "Well... I wouldn't bring up _that_ book, while trying to persuade you to participate in my own. But I've also heard that you and Flür have since been reconciled."

Florian turned around, eyeing me slightly suspiciously as he beat the eggs. It felt like an odd dance, trying to find subjects that would not incite that mistrustful expression. "Have you talked to Flür?"

"No," After a very long pause, I added. "I don't think I'm allowed."

That provoked another low, rumbling belly chuckle. "Flür... well, we have made our peace. Life is too long to hold such grudges."

"You mean short," I corrected, before realising it was probably very rude to have corrected his English like that.

"No, I mean long. Life is the longest thing that you, or I, or any of us will ever do." His eyes seemed to sparkle as he said it. "Having buried both my parents, and one of my sisters in the past decade, my life seems very long."

"I'm sorry for your loss," I said, almost automatically, noting the odd intonation of his voice, how he pronounced decade like 'decayed'.

He acknowledged my sympathy with a light shrug, then turned back to the stove as the egg hit the melted butter with a spattering hiss. "Ralf, of course, will never... how do you say... bury the hammer."

"Bury the hatchet," I said quietly, but Florian's grin made me wonder if he had intended the malapropism. "Ralf is so strange about his former colleagues. On one hand, yes, I understand why Ralf would be so tender. Flür really... eviscerated him in print. In an overly personal way." 

I waited, wondering if Florian needed time to catch up in English. Ralf's English was so fluent that he could even think in English, answering me as quickly as in German. But he still forgot words at speed, often substituting several synonyms or similar-sounding words in quick succession before he finally alighted on the right one. Florian in general, seemed quieter, slower, more ponderous in his speech. But he seemed literally ponderous, as if he were thinking everything through before replying. He didn't search for the right word; he waited for it to come, though it meant his replies were often slower than Ralf's. "Yes. The things he wrote were very personal. We both felt it was an attack. But... ah, it is a very long time ago now."

"But Ralf's response is the opposite of personal. He uses the courts to erase things. To erase people. To pretend things didn't happen when everyone knows they did." I felt a slight shiver go down my spine, as I wondered if this was what would happen to me. There never was a Kate. The book had no writer. "It's like he wants to rewrite the past, to fit his present."

But Florian smiled slowly as he cut two thick slices of heavy German bread and popped them in the toaster. "Ralf does not live in the present. He lives in the past. You may have noticed. He has built a museum around himself. But Ralf, being the sole curator of the Museum of Kraftwerk, has the final say on who and what goes into the Museum of Kraftwerk."

"Do you think he is cutting you out of the Museum of Kraftwerk?"

"How can he cut me out, when I have removed myself?" Florian shrugged lightly, busying himself with various preparations, opening cabinets until he found two plates, cutlery, a tall peppermill. "I never had the patience for museums. I prefer galleries. The here, the now. Being in the moment. Speaking of which - how is the weather? Would you prefer to eat outside, or should we stay in here?"

I turned to look out the window, but it remained bright and sunny. "No, it's unseasonably warm. We could eat outside if you like."

"Eh?" said Florian, cocking his ear towards me.

I realised with a start that he was behaving as if he were slightly deaf, and turned back towards him to repeat myself. "It is nice. We can eat outside."

"Good." He nodded decisively. The toast popped up, and Florian carefully placed it on the plates, then dished out the eggs on top, dusted grated cheese across it, and finished it up with a garnish of fresh green herbs. "I will bring the food, if you will bring the drinks. Feel free to freshen your coffee, if you please."

I did as I was told, topping up both our coffee cups, then following him outside. It was a beautiful spring day, and the sunshine felt warm on my hair and skin. "It's a beautiful day," I said limply, taking my place opposite him at a sort of triangular-ish wooden picnic table.

"It is definitely spring now." But then he grinned, as he prepared to tuck into his breakfast. "Soon, it will be my birthday."

I laughed. "Mine, too," I said, then gingerly tasted the eggs. I didn't know what kind of herbs he had fried them with, but they were delicious. He looked up at me, curious. "My birthday is three days after yours," I added, cutting off a piece of bread. That, to my surprise, was rye, and absolutely perfect with the slightly spiced eggs. "This is... amazing. Absolutely delicious."

He shrugged off the praise, but seemed interested by this new knowledge. "So you are also an Aries."

"Are you still into astrology? I thought you gave that up in the 70s."

Florian merely shrugged, conveying entire conversations with inclines of his shoulders. "I still find it interesting. Ralf cannot resist an Aries, you know. Leo and Aries are always mutually attracted."

I laughed. "He said you would say something like that."

He chewed a crust of his bread for a minute, then replied "Well. His sister is an Aries. His daughter is an Aries. I believe his mother was an Aries, too. Most of the women in his life have been Aries. And, of course, me. I am fine with Aries women, you see. It is a good energy. But Aries men? No, no, no. This is terrible. We had a drummer once, who was another Aries. We fought very badly. But Leo and Aries is good together. They balance one another."

The question slipped out before I could stop myself. "Is Jutta an Aries?"

Florian frowned. "No. Jutta is a Scorpio. This is not so good for Aries."

I was about to ask him what he thought of Ralf's marriage, when abruptly the kitchen door opened and an attractive young woman clattered out across the deck in high heels. They had such a strong look of one another that there could be no doubt of their relationship, but it was confirmed when she addressed him. >>Papa! Be a darling. I have a request of you.<< Bending down, she kissed the top of his bald pate, but then she caught sight of me. >>Hällochen...<<

"This is Kate. She is an English writer," Florian explained. "My daughter, Lisa."

Lisa put down the cup of coffee she was drinking and extended her hand for me to shake. "Charmed." She had the most extraordinary accent; German, with a distinct touch of Boston. "What are you writing?"

"She is writing about Ralf," explained Florian.

"Ugh, how boring," dismissed Lisa and rolled her eyes. >>Papa, my car is in the workshop, and Mama has taken hers. May I borrow yours to go to Uni?<<

"Of course, of course," agreed Florian indulgently, as she beamed her thanks, and picked up the cup of coffee again, depositing another kiss on the top of his head. "There are eggs if you want to have a more balanced breakfast than just coffee, my dear..."

>>Thank you Papa<< she called as she went. >>See you soon!<<

Florian absolutely beamed as she went back into the kitchen and poked at the pots he had been using. "My pride and joy," he said. "She is studying Economics at Uni. Can you believe it? We don't know where it comes from. Her Schneider-Esleben cousins are all designers, architects, artists. But Lisa wants to be an economist. It must come from her mother's side."

"A very sensible thing to study," I told him, watching as she, too, grabbed a set of keys and dashed off down the stairs. We were alone now. Despite the fact that we were almost in the centre of the city, the deck at the back faced into the courtyard, off the street, and it was very quiet. I sipped my coffee and chased the last of my scrambled eggs around the plate, enjoying the faint trill of birdsong, though the trees behind the house were still bare.

"Would you like some more?" offered Florian. "That is, if my daughter has left us any."

"Oh, no thanks, I'm fine."

Still, Florian stood up to take the plates away. "Fruit, perhaps?" I nodded vaguely, and he shuffled off towards the kitchen. "I will bring the fruit bowl; you may select what you wish."

He came back with the fruit bowl, which was enormous, and a fresh carafe of coffee to refill our cups. As I picked at a bunch of grapes, he peeled a tangerine. "So," he finally broached. It seemed to be a thing, with these men, that they did not discuss business over food. They waited until after the food was finished, then discussed the point of order as we digested. "You are writing a book about Ralf."

"Well, I am writing a book _for_ Ralf. It's an odd business, ghostwriting. Everything has to be written in the first person, so I have to pretend to be him while I write. It's quite an odd place to be."

"Indeed." Florian smirked as he polished off his tangerine in about two mouthfuls and started on an apple, rubbing it against the apron he had neglected to take off. "So you say you have extracted an entire first draft out of Ralf."

I nodded, and reached into my bag, pulling out the notebook in which I had scribbled my questions.

Florian craned his neck, and tried to look over the page. "May I read it?"

I placed the book down, on the table before me, so that he could see that it was only notes. The question was a far more loaded one than his casual tone seemed to suggest - or maybe he knew this, and that was why he was acting so casual, trying to catch me off-guard, and trick me into allowing him. "You know that's not a request I can grant. I would have to ask Ralf."

He smiled as slyly as a crocodile, and spread his hands. "Well. You would understand why I would ask you."

"I can't make that call, Florian. I signed a confidentiality agreement when he hired me."

Leaning forwards, he refilled both of our coffee cups. "He has trained you well. You are very loyal. Ralf likes that in a worker."

I found myself suddenly flushing, though it was an innocent enough assertion. Florian continued to study me, sort of sideways, as if gazing at me out of the corner of his eye. "I... Ralf trusts me. I can't betray that trust. I..." I had been on the edge of saying that I loved him, before I stopped myself. "I care about him. On a professional level, you understand."

"Of course." Florian's smile indicated that he understood exactly what I meant, and for a terrible moment, I was tempted to just spill everything all over his picnic table, tell him exactly how conflicted and in love and afraid I was. "Well, if I am not permitted to read it, may I ask what you wished to speak to me about, then?"

I took a deep breath and tucked my tender guts back inside me. "There are many anecdotes that Ralf has told me, that... well. You don't have to elaborate, but if you could just confirm or deny. I can't guarantee you I can take them out, if you deny them. But I can tone them down, or otherwise indicate that memory is not always perfect."

Florian smiled as he sipped his coffee. There was a tiny smudge of his daughter's lipstick just on the crest of his head, which made him look somehow loveable, even cuddly, like a kindly old Dad. "Well. Yes, I think I could do that." As he lowered his coffee cup, his eyes twinkled. "Are you going to tell Ralf that you have spoken to me?"

"I don't know," I told him in a burst of honesty that surprised even me.

He looked surprised for a moment, his eyebrows shooting up across his head, but then he smiled. And then finally, he looked like he wanted to ask me something, but the moment past. I could feel the emotions all curled inside of me, just bursting to get out. I wanted to tell him, wanted to confess all. I'm in love with Ralf. I have made a terrible error of judgement, sleeping with Ralf, but it only goes to show that I have no sense of boundaries, no moral judgement, no objectivity when it comes to Ralf. I believe everything he tells me, because I am in love with him. And I need someone, anyone, to give me back some moral compass when it comes to that man.

"Also," said Florian, and for a moment I was terribly confused. Had I spoken out loud? But no, a moment later, I realised, this was not an English 'also' introducing another thought, but a German 'also', just a placeholder to indicate that he was ready to go on. Florian was very perceptive, but he could not read minds. "Shall we begin?"

I nodded, and looked down at my notes, trying very hard to control the blush that was still spreading across my face. "You met Ralf at a summer course in 1968." Florian nodded his assent, his eyes starting to glaze over already, as if regretting his decision. "Ralf said that your first conversation was about your electronic flute. So you were already dabbling with electronic augmentation, before you ever met Ralf?"

At this, he seemed to perk up and grow interested again. "Oh, yes. I started working with electronic augmentation, let's see, in about 1967 or so, after attending a lecture in Köln by Karlheinz Stockhausen. It was always one of my interests, a long time before I met Ralf."

"So you turned him on to electronics, as well as turning him on to Stockhausen?"

Florian's smile was very wily. "You might say so. Did _he_ say so?"

"He did not say. But I have long suspected, and I wanted to hear your side."

"You cannot grow close to someone, and work with them day in, day out, without coming to share many of your ideas. I don't think it's important who came up with this specific idea, or that specific idea _first_. What is important is that you shared them. And this was an interest, that both of us took off on, after we started working together."

I scribbled quickly in my notebook, trying to get the gist of what he was saying down, then reached for my bag. "Would you mind if I taped this?"

"I would mind very much. I would prefer if you didn't." Something seemed to fall shut across his face that, a moment ago, had been completely open.

I took a deep breath and looked steadily across the table at him. "Ralf eventually came around to letting me tape him, because it helped me capture his way of speaking, his odd phrasing, his mannerisms. Will you really not let me tape you?"

Florian shook his head like a puppy trying to dislodge a flea from his ear, then seemed to notice he was still wearing the cook's apron, and stood up to remove it. "Even more strenuously not, in that case. I do not wish to be quoted. And I wish, even more strongly, not to be ventriloquised like a puppet or a dummy. I know this idea appeals to Ralf, very much - hence the dummies and the robots - to use a machine to speak on his behalf. And hence why, I am guessing, he loves working with you so closely, if you are able to spit out Ralf-like aphorisms from some algorithm like a computer... If you can synthesise his voice and make it say things for him, oh yes, he would love the idea of not having to do the talking... But I find the whole idea intensely distasteful." Discarding the apron over the back of his chair, he sat back down heavily, and glared at me. "I am not your puppet, Fraulein, even if Ralf would have you believe that he is."

I drew back and stared at him, my thoughts thrown into complete disorder by what he had said, my conscience thrashing about like a salmon trying to get upstream. "What do you mean by that?" I asked desperately, but he shut his mouth into a grim line, and would say no more. I wondered if his wife had told him that I worked with data, if he thought that I data-mined Ralf like a Hadoop set, and spat out 'Ralf-like Algorithms' in my new job, like I spat out algorithm-generated analysis in my old programming job.

But Florian remained perfectly still and perfectly silent, sipping his coffee and gazing back at me with an inscrutable expression.

"Ralf is not my puppet. I cannot control what he says or does..." But suddenly, I saw the twist in what he had said. Ralf would have you _believe_ he is. Was he trying to warn me that it was the other way around? That Ralf was ventriloquising me?

"Do you have another question?" asked Florian, his voice much colder than it had been up to this point.

"Yes, of course," I said, looking down at my notebook to try and compose my thoughts. "Who organised the contract with RCA Victor, for the Organisation record?"

Florian closed his eyes very tight, and screwed up his face, as if he were accessing deep memory banks. "That was Ralf," he finally pronounced with a slight nod and seemed to relax slightly. "It was not a good contract, but this was not Ralf's fault. We were both very young and inexperienced."

I scratched away in my notebook, then moved on to the next question. Slowly, Florian started to relax again, and began to smile at me more often. Going back through these old memories did not seem pleasurable to him, the way that it often did to Ralf, but he enjoyed the occasional sidetracks onto other topics. The personal relationships, they did not seem to concern him much at all, and he was far less sentimental about the 'old days'. The gear, though, that he enjoyed talking about. Occasionally, he would even rouse himself into a state of excitement, and ask me if Müller had shown me this or that particular bit of kit. They had gone through a mania for upgrading in the 90s, and in the 00s, when they had replaced all of their old gear with digital equipment. But really, there was nothing like the original synthesisers, he told me. As temperamental and unpredictable as they could be, he felt a genuine warmth and connection for that old gear.

"It's not something you so much _hear_ ," he told me, leaning forward, and tapping his own chest. "As something you _feel_ , in your muscles and your bones. This modern digital equipment, the sound is perfect. But nothing in nature is perfect. It is all messy, chaotic, and that makes it exciting. This is something I used to discuss with my father-in-law. He is a mathematician, did you know this, yes? He is interested in how numbers predict the forms of nature, leaves, petals, Fibonacci and so forth. But there is never, in nature, a flower or a leaf that is perfect. And if you see a digital prediction of a perfect flower, it looks false. It looks fake. But he showed me that you can use this in numbers, in data analysis, to predict fraud."

"Oh yes, I used to do this in my old job," I piped up. 'There are orders of which initial numbers come up most often in nature. Fake data always looks wrong, because they are distributed perfectly evenly, when true data is not."

"Exactly," agreed Florian, tapping the table with the palm of his hand. It was so like Ralf's gesture that I almost ached. After forty years of partnership, there were still so many ghost echoes of one another's habits. "So I feel this way about the digital copies. They are too clean, too pristine. The models of a soundwave are always far too perfect to pass for an organic soundwave. So I have been doing my best to re-accumulate much of that old equipment that we foolishly threw away. I have a friend who has been helping me with this..."

I suddenly thought of Müller, and the old Moog components she had bought in Mexico. None of them had ended up in Klingklang equipment. "Is it Müller?" I asked, lowering my voice to a slightly conspiratorial tone.

Florian sat back in his chair, and tapped his finger against the side of his long, pointed nose. "My source on the inside. Kleine Flo, we call her."

I smiled back at him, but on the inside, I realised that he had just confirmed far more than he had intended to. So Müller was definitely the spy. My heart ached, realising that I really could no longer trust her, but instead I nodded gently at Big Flo and moved down to the next question.


	18. The Tinkerer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Florian tells Katrin T some home truths about his former partner. And Katrin T finds herself relating to Katrin H a little more than she would like.

It took about four hours to get through my list of questions. And honestly, for all that Florian had said he didn’t want to talk about his former band, some of his insights, well, I could have written a whole other book about them.

Florian, I realised as I spoke to him, was such a _details_ kind of guy, in the way that Ralf was interested mostly in systems and big-picture kinds of questions. He had an incredible ability to zoom in on tiny minutiae, and from there extrapolate outward from the very bottom up, leaping from micro to macro and back like a very powerful telescope. He could remember all those tiny details, such as the granularity of the oscillator banks they used on Autobahn, and enjoyed explaining in great depth the difference in tonal quality between Ralf's Minimoog and his own ARP Odyssey.

But there were few surprises. Ralf's memory, for the most part, was exceedingly accurate, though occasionally a little biased. Ralf's flaws were tiny sins of omission, rather than outright fabrication. For the most part, Ralf's and Florian's memories aligned. 

And Florian did seem to visibly relax, once he realised that he would not come off too badly in the book. I couldn't help it. I was still more than a little in awe of him, in a way that Ralf's shininess had long since worn off. I tried not to wear my admiration on my sleeve, and treat Florian with respect, but to be honest, I suspected that he was flattered by the occasional tiny burst of fangirling. And realising that I held him in such high esteem, he relaxed slightly and came to accept that the book's representations of him would not be tempered too much by Ralf's sense of betrayal and bitterness. I simply wouldn't allow it, and always toned down Ralf's barbs, convincing him to be more charitable to his erstwhile partners.

The afternoon was a success, as both the sun, and the level of coffee in the carafe went down. The pages of my notebook filled up with scribbles, as I took careful notes. Florian was funny and charming, and very, very charismatic, though much of his humour was very physical, the expressions he would make, the faces he would pull, as much as his playful turns of phrase. In many ways, he was very like Ralf, the same love of puns and wordplay. But Florian was mischievous and quixotic, where Ralf was often pragmatic and... well, I would never describe Ralf as down-to-earth, but compared with Florian's childlike flights of fantasy, Ralf was much more sensible, and oddly inflexible.

But oh, how I wished I could hear them talking together. I got only a sense of what their interactions must have been like. There was a feeling, that everyone who knew them well back then seemed to keep repeating: that together, they were very, very funny together, that they fell into a kind of double act, playing off one another, puns sparking more puns. Even talking to them separately, it was very easy to see how that would have worked.

For about ten minutes, I mentally entertained some kind of mad scheme, about how I could engineer Florian and Ralf into the same room again, to try and put them back together in the hopes that their particular, special chemical reaction would take hold and the magic would happen all over again. But no. I came back to earth with a jolt every time Florian made explicit how little interest he had in revisiting his former project, and how much less interest he had in ever speaking with Ralf again. It was a part of his life he was now able to talk about only because of how completely and irrevocably he had accepted that it was over.

"Ralf lives only in the past," Florian kept repeating, over and again, whenever I would bring him up. "Which would be fine if he would just go back, and live there by himself. But he wishes to take the rest of us back into the past with him. If you are working with Ralf, you must always do things in Ralf's way. This is his biggest flaw; he cannot stand to be disagreed with."

I felt the hairs bristle on the back of my neck, sensing that there was definitely some uncomfortable truth in what Florian said, but at the same time, wishing to defend my lover. "That's not entirely true. He and I are able to disagree."

There was a long pause as Florian stopped, and looked at me very carefully, studying me, cocking his head to one side as if considering this. "Really?"

"Well, albeit gently... respectfully. I've learned to step around him lightly. I've got a feel for what things I can push him on, and what things I can't. But disagreeing can sometimes be... well..." I took a deep breath and decided to risk the truth, remembering how we used to tease one another, in the days before our affair became physical. "It can be almost like a form of flirtation with Ralf." 

Florian's eyes widened with surprise, but then, abruptly, he started to laugh, as if he had just realised what my angle was. For a moment, I wondered if I'd gone too far, if I'd risked the whole game by giving that away, if I had completely blown it with that admission. It was no longer a question of getting an interview out of Florian. It was more the fact that I desperately wanted to be _liked_ by him.

He took an apricot from the fruit bowl, and tossed it back and forth between his hands as if he were going to juggle it, but finally, he spoke. "You have discovered something about Ralf that I think even Ralf himself has forgotten."

"And what is that?" The apricot thing was bugging me. I wanted him to either put it down, or just eat it.

"You have seen the new Klingklang, yes, how it is organised?"

"Yes, I work there." I gestured towards the notebook, emblazoned with the logo.

"And what is it like?" asked Florian, leaving me confused, as to whether he was genuinely expecting an answer, if he wanted me to spy on his former colleagues the way that Müller did. 

"It's... nice," I ventured, but Florian continued to gaze at me, now tapping his apricot against his lips but still not sinking his teeth into it, and I realised that he was pushing me for something more. Irritation shook me for a moment, and I risked another moment of incaution. "It is all explicitly set up for Ralf's comfort and happiness," I explained. >>Der Chef must always be kept happy<< I said in German, in an imitation of Günter's warning tone. "It's all totally efficient, totally insulated from distraction. He has merely to snap his fingers, and a technician provides him with whatever he requires. It must be heaven for an artist of Ralf's calibre."

Florian burst out laughing again, and this time, he drew back his lips, and sunk his long, wolfish teeth into the apricot. As he chewed, his eyes sparkled with mischief, until he swallowed thoughtfully. "Vom Himmel Hoch," he said, and I realised he was making a pun. From the heights of heaven. "And no one ever dares disagree with the artist, because who would disturb the goose that lays the golden egg. He is their meal ticket, after all."

"Well, Klingklang employs about a dozen people at this point..." I ventured, feeling very protective of my colleagues. "There are a lot of people relying on him."

"And Ralf hasn't written a note of new music, since he moved into these comfortable heights of heaven, where everyone bows and scrapes and doffs their caps and caters to his every whim, has he," said Florian, with an arched eyebrow and more than a hint of cattiness as he started to rotate the bitten apricot round and round between his thumb and forefinger.

"I wouldn't know," I shrugged defensively, though I had the awful gut feeling that it was completely true. There was a full piano keyboard behind Ralf's desk, but I had never seen him so much touch it.

"And yet you come along, and you start to disagree with him... as a form of _flirtation_ , you say? And you have, in six months, through this method, pulled an entire autobiography out of him. What does that tell you, hmmmm?"

I gaped at Florian, as if only just realising what he was trying to tell me, as he took a second bite of the apricot. "Ralf hates conflict. But he can't create without it."

"Hee hee hee," wheezed Florian, drawing his lips back so that all of his crocodile teeth showed in a wide expression that was not quite a smile. "Ralf has always created because he was pushing _back_ against something. Pushing back against the Establishment. Pushing back against our contemporaries. Pushing back against people's expectations of him. With nothing to push against, there is no material for him." He paused, and gestured towards me with the remains of the apricot. "I expect he is doing very much the same thing to you, Fraulein Amanuensis. He controls you, he shapes you to be the way that he wants you, and in the process, he destroys the very thing that he needs from you."

I shuddered, feeling a sudden chill, wanting to reach out and grab Florian by the shoulders, shake him, and make him explain what on earth he had meant by that, but abruptly a shadow passed over the table. Out of nowhere dropped a large black bird, showing flashes of white on its wings before folding them up and strutting back and forth across the deck, chattering at Florian as if demanding payment on an overdue bill from him.

>>Ah, here you are my friend<< exclaimed Florian, turning around, completely diverted by the magpie. >>You are very late. I have eaten nearly all of your fruit.<< And with this, he leaned forwards, and tossed the last portion of the apricot onto the floor, only a few feet away from the bird. The magpie hopped back as if alarmed, but then seemed to catch the scent of the fruit, and strutted boldly towards it. For a moment, she pecked at it, as if to ascertain that it was indeed food, then she seized hold of it, detached the flesh neatly from the stone, and flapped up to the rail of the deck with the chunk in her mouth. >>You can come over here, Frau Vogel. Our guest is friendly<< Florian offered, but the bird kept its distance, flicking its tail as it eyed us.

"Ach," he apologised. "Sometimes when I am alone, she will come and sit on the table and let me feed her grapes. But I think she is shy with new people. My wife says we are much alike, the magpie and I." As if to prove his point, the bird flashed her glossy black and white stripes, then disappeared in a flicker of feathers, as quickly as she had come. Both of us watched her fly off, Florian grinning with the excitement of a small child. "I think she must have a nest nearby, but I have never discovered it. Just as well. We all need our privacy." He gave a little laugh and wiped his fingers on a crumpled napkin.

Distracted by the bird, I tried to claw my way back to the previous conversation, remembering what he had said about Ralf needing conflict for his creativity - and that odd statement about how Ralf clearly tried to control me. What on earth had made him say that? He didn't even know me; he had never so much as seen Ralf and I together. Was Ralf really controlling me, shaping me to make him more like he liked? Thinking of my whole rack of new, Ralf-pleasing clothing again, I suddenly thought that he must be, but I had stopped noticing in any way.

But Florian stood up, shook crumbs from his trousers, then picked his apron off the back of his chair. "And now, speaking of family privacy, I really must draw a line underneath this conversation. It has been... interesting. But it is time for it to end." The audience, clearly, was over.

I glanced inside to the hall clock, to check the time, and saw that it was nearly five o'clock. Had we been sitting there that long? But abruptly, the door to the kitchen banged, and his wife reappeared.

As I picked up the coffee cups and carried them back into the kitchen, Sandhya took them from me and smiled. "How did you two get on?"

"Well. I got a lot of information, that was very useful to me. I'm exceedingly grateful to you both, for your time. If it wasn't too terrible for Florian."

Florian actually grinned his crocodile smile as he started to go through the fridge again, putting away groceries his wife had left on the counter. "It went tolerably well," he conceded.

"Tolerable," echoed Sandhya, arching an eyebrow at me. "That is a vast improvement on the last writer that came through Düsseldorf looking for an interview. Florian disliked his letter so much, he closed the shutters and wouldn't even speak with him."

Florian shrugged and made another of his eloquent facial gestures, indicating that he considered the man an idiot and an irritant. "He was impudent. And his book was terrible."

"Did you read it?" I teased.

"No. My sister reads these things for me, and tells me if they are worth it."

I smiled wryly, wanting to continue the more enjoyable mood of our earlier conversations. "What about Rudi Esch? Your sister spoke to him for his book."

Florian seemed to consider this carefully, before nodding. "Ah, Rüdiger is alright. He is a good sort. But... if I speak to Rüdiger, I have to speak to everyone. No, it is better not to open that door."

"So why did you agree to speak to me?" I probed.

Grinning widely, Florian tapped the side of his nose with a finger. "Ah, but I did not speak to you. I only confirmed, or denied, quotes which you already had. None of this is on the record. None of this is can be attributed to me. Ergo, I did not speak to you."

"Ah. I see," I said, getting the gist. So that was the real reason why he hadn't wanted the conversation to be taped. Without a tape, I had no proof the conversation had even happened at all. "So where do I tell Ralf I got this information from, then?"

Florian laughed aloud. "I don't actually think that you are even going to tell Ralf that you have had this conversation."

At that, I suddenly blanched, realising that I had been out of phone range all afternoon. I had turned off my phone just after confirming that it was noon, and not touched it again all afternoon. What if Ralf had been trying to get hold of me? Oh god. For five whole hours, until that offhand comment about him controlling me, I had actually forgotten the tangled mess of my personal relationship with Ralf, and thought of him only as my biographical subject. But as I flipped my phone back on, and desperately refreshed all of my inboxes, it all came rushing back.

But there was nothing. No texts. No missed calls. No emails, apart from a couple of reply-all announcements from other staff at Klingklang, and a few adverts. Ralf's and my relationship seemed to have collapsed into a black hole.

Sandhya, however, must have mistook my panic for disappointment of another kind, as I could see, out of the corner of my eye, her and Florian exchanging the kinds of glances that passed for entire conversations between people who had been married for nearly 40 years. But Florian smiled, and nodded enthusiastically, and Sandhya turned to me.

"Do you have to go rushing off, so soon?" she asked. "Would you like to stay and have dinner with us?"

"Dinner?" I stuttered, confused by this sudden display of friendliness. "You are spoiling me..."

"My wife is a much better cook than I am," Florian revealed bashfully, then smiled at me from under his white eyebrows. "And I could... well, I could show you my synthesiser collection downstairs, if you might be interested in such a thing." He shifted his weight nervously, from one foot to the other, as if he were actually worried that I might not be interested in such a thing!

"How on earth could I possibly say no?" I gasped, but then winked at Florian. "Of course, all of this is off the record, isn't it? A purely social occasion."

Florian grinned slyly, and nodded. "But of course. We have never had this conversation."

The entire evening took a turn for the surreal. I followed Florian back down to the lower floor, entering through one of the forbidding grey doors, through a double sound-lock into a long, narrow, windowless room that was almost a double, in size and feel, to the tiny studio back on Mintropstrasse. It had a closeness, an intimacy, a sense of protection that those large, sterile, perfectly sound reinforced workshops in the new Klingklang totally lacked. And it was messy, almost slovenly, with a few of Florian’s clothes scattered about, a tweed waistcoat draped over a chair, a heavy woollen cardigan hanging off a nail on the wall. Things were stuck up all over the walls, in a way that Ralf would never have allowed at Klingklang, just tacked up with blutack that would have horrified Gudrun and sent her howling for the cleaners. An old-fashioned synth catalogue from the 70s. A timetable of the trains to and from Hamburg. A faded and dog-eared wallchart that displayed >>Common Garden Birds of Germany<< in full colour, summer and winter plumage.

And here, on workbenches and in racks, were his toys. Several of the machines, I recognised, either from old Kraftwerk clips, or from things Müller had been working on, right under our boss's nose. Florian pottered about, turning things on, warming things up, demonstrating a few notes before moving onto something else more exciting.

"Are you working on new music?" I probed, still terrified of when I was going to cross the line that made him throw me out. I had grown to know, exactly how far I could push with Ralf, but with Florian I had no such sense.

"Maybe, perhaps." I knew that as Ralf's phrase, and it shocked me a little to realise that it might have been a catchphrase he had poached from Florian.

"When you did that Stop Plastic Pollution track, with Dan Lachsman, there were hints that you might have recorded more..." I suggested.

Florian smiled like the Mona Lisa, and raised his pale eyebrows mysteriously. He was so inscrutable when he wanted to be, quite unlike Ralf, who always wore his emotions all over his face. "What did you think of my little fishy track? Did you like it?"

I felt my face flushing, as I could no longer control my inner fangirl. "I thought it was amazing, frankly. The detail... the attention to the sonic textures, all those tiny little elements locking together. The water sounds! The way the whole thing hung together, that rocking-chair squeezebox melody, and that oddly queasy little rhythm, like being on a boat... It was just enchanting. Like those little music boxes, you know, that you would wind them up, and then open them up, and inside is this whole, tiny little clockwork world. It was like that. Strange, and intricate and beautiful. I thought it was enchanting."

Florian smiled, tight-lipped, though his eyes sparkled, as if he didn't really know what to do with the praise. "Thank you." He really did look like the cat that got the cream, though he made a gesture with one hand, as if trying to sweep the compliment away. "That is a very good observation. I like that. Like a little music box."

"Yes, that was my impression. Like a little wind-up music box. Kind of magical. A whole world, completely self-contained."

He eyed me carefully, with a curious expression, and I could see his fingers start to drum on the keyboard of a Mac that was half hidden among the mechanical junk on the shelves around his desk. "You know, maybe someday, I will play you some of my other little music-boxes that I have been working on..." Almost as soon as he said it, he seemed to want to take it back, and I realised from the odd hesitancy in his eyes, that he was trying to work out just how far he could trust me. "But not today."

His hand left the computer keyboard, and he stood up, and walked over to a large, modern synthesiser, demonstrating another set of sounds. The test was past, though I couldn't tell if I had passed or failed.

I took a deep breath, and decided to try to engage him on the kind of subject he seemed to respond to best. “You were going to demonstrate to me, the difference in tonality between an ARP and a Moog?”

At this, his face lit up completely, his handsome features flickering to life as if someone had turned on the power supply. “Yes, yes, of course. I would be delighted. I have managed to obtain an ARP, very similar to the one I played in the 70s, and of course Kleine Flo has restored it to working order for me…” Standing up, he shuffled around, located a trolley covered in a large, dusty piece of cloth, and wheeled it towards me. “Here, you see the oscillators, each with its own filter...” he demonstrated, removing the cloth with a faint puff of dust, then blowing it off the machine’s face. “Yes, yes, let me plug it in and warm it up for you.” He was exactly like a mad scientist, as he hopped about, unplugging one bank of power couplings, then making a panicked noise and quickly replacing it, as the lights abruptly dimmed. Finally, he located a free socket and powered up the machine. “Do you play?” he asked, gesturing towards the keys.

“A little,” I confessed. “I had music lessons when I was young. You almost never used the keyboard, though, did you? You always used that strange, futuristic flute-like controller.”

“Hee hee hee,” said Florian, positively twinkling at me as he retreated back into the depths of his workshop to locate another bit of kit. “Would you like that see that? I still have it, you know. I made sure to get that back from my former partner.” Digging in a pile of equipment, he located a stand, and moved it to the front of the synth, then returned to a set of metal shelves to pick up a long, slender length of what looked like fibreglass tubing. “Ralf used to make fun of my one one-fingered hunt-and-peck method with regards to piano playing, but I tell you... have you ever seen Ralf try to play a flute?”

And with a few plugged-in wires, and jiggling the connections to make sure they worked, there, suddenly, was the original equipment – or near enough – that my beloved Kraftwerk records had been composed upon.

“Let’s see...” he mused, flicking a few knobs, then taking his place at the controller. It emitted a strange howl, and he frowned and adjusted a few more knobs on the synth, his long elegant fingers flicking across the machine quickly, sanding down the tone and polishing it until it was beautiful. Flashing me a brilliant grin, he placed his fingers on the controller and played a few notes, before suddenly drifting into a short burst of the main riff from Radioactivity. But almost as soon as he seemed to realise what he was doing, he pulled his fingers sharply back from the controller and threw me a sheepish expression. “Well. You get the idea.”

“Please play more?” I asked.

Florian shook his head as if spooked, but then turned to me. “Would you like to have a go?”

I nearly laughed in his face, but of course it was an opportunity too good to pass up. “What do I do?” I asked, standing up and moving towards the strange transparent ghost-flute. “It’s the same fingering as a flute or a recorder, yes?”

“Just so,” agreed Florian, hovering in a vaguely paternal fashion.

“Do I just touch, or do I have to press?” I asked, afraid to even make the faintest contact with the thing.

“Do you mind?” gestured Florian, with a gentlemanly air, as his hands flickered closer to mine. I shook my head. “Just so…” he explained, moved round to the side of me, and placed his fingers ever so gently on top of mine, showing me the required pressure to trigger the notes. “Yes, you need to keep your thumb on the underside down here…”

I was almost overpowered by a sudden, overwhelming sense memory. I couldn’t have been more than six, sitting on my father’s lap in the front room of our house in North London. He had a guitar across my lap, and was showing me the fingering to make an open G chord, the most basic shape on a guitar. My baby fingers did not have the strength to hold down the heavy strings of that old acoustic, so my Dad had laid his fingers over the top of mine, and I held the plectrum in my right hand, bashing away at the strings as we sang together… oh god, I think it was an old Donovan song, Mellow Yellow or something of that era. All I could remember was the reassuring warmth of my father’s lap, the strength of his fingers, and his careful voice, guiding me and showing me how to make music.

And in that moment, in Florian’s basement, with the feel of his fingers pressed over mine to show me the notes, the smell of the leather patches on the elbows of his jumper, something in me twisted towards him. It wasn’t even remotely sexual, like the clinch with Ralf over the bicycle. It was entirely familial, like I was struck with the strongest impulse to throw my arms around Florian’s neck and cry “Papa!”

“There, you’ve got it” laughed Florian, and the image dispelled like mist from Müller’s vape-stick as he pulled away and gazed down at me. as I ventured from Three Blind Mice to a jaunty scale, trying to remember the muscle memory of where the note were on a flute. “You’re a natural.”

“I had flute lessons a million years ago, as a child. The memory is still in there somewhere...” I confessed.

A misty expression came over Florian’s eyes. “I tried to interest my daughter in music lessons when she was a child, but she was having none of it. Like myself, with architecture,” he laughed with an ironic shrug. “She takes after her mother; she is just not musical. Sewing and knitting and cross-stitch, those were her great passions as a little girl. From Kraftwerk to craftwork,” he added, and we both laughed. “I suppose it’s just as well she did not take after her Papa in that way.”

“It’s a shame you have no one to pass them on to,” I mused, still fidgeting with the controller. It was very compulsive.

“I expect they will go to a museum” shrugged Florian.

An odd expression passed between us, just for a moment, as I suddenly thought to myself... oh god. Why didn’t I run into you first? You would have made the best Dad, and I would have been a far better surrogate daughter for you, than for Ralf...

But at that moment, I was distracted by a flash out of the corner of my eye. Something was blinking, and very brightly on the corner of his desk next to his computer. “Florian, I’m sorry to interrupt, but your computer is flashing?”

“Ah” yelped Florian, and he hopped around the workstation to pick up what I realised was actually a light-up telephone. >>Hallo? Oh yes, of course, my darling, we are just finished. We will come up for dinner straightaway.<<

 

 

We had a nice dinner. Sandhya's food was lovely, and Lisa arrived home halfway through, joining us at the table. The women talked, for the most part, as Florian smiled like a paterfamilias and listened to the steady stream of conversation, joining in on points he found interesting. Both of them struck me as just friendly and kind and interesting women, albeit tempered through fierce intelligence. Sitting amongst them, I honestly felt like both Sandhya and Lisa were going out of their way to pull me into the conversations, even draw me in on their side as they and Florian gently danced around their topics. Lisa would explain a bit of Piketty she had learned about in economics class, then Sandhya would pick up the subject and compare it to something her father had taught her, then they would both turn and try to draw me in and work out where I stood, so we could present a wide range of opinions for Florian to choose from. It was actually a lot of fun, this sort of conversational game.

And it wasn’t as if Florian was a silent presence, demanding that his women perform the emotional labour of entertaining him. It was more that he seemed genuinely interested in what they had to say, and wanted to make sure they had the space to expand, catching up bits of their conversation like a magpie attracted by glittering things. He was that rare man that seemed to genuinely enjoy the company of women, surrounded by his girls.

He smiled at me across the dining room table, and explained, without prompting, “I grew up, you forget, with two little sisters, who were my co-conspirators in all things. As I said to you before, I enjoy the company of naughty little girls. It is my natural habitat.”

“Oh stop it, Dad. You’re fooling no one, you old goat,” laughed Lisa, elbowing him gently as she reached for a plate of pakora to pass to me.

“Be careful, Kate,” chimed Sandhya. “You’ll end up in the Schneider-Esleben harem in no time.”

“I’m not sure that would be too terrible a fate,” I confessed, smiling back at all of them.

And for an awful moment, I felt myself suddenly sympathising a little with Katrin. Because this was the kind of family I would have liked, Florian gently teasing his girls, letting them entertain him with titbits of gossip and interesting knowledge gleaned from their travels. Lisa, in particular, he liked to poke into talking about her research, his face obviously shining with pride, even as he pretended not to understand her subject or why she was so obsessed with it. They were a warm and close-knit family, holding one another up, even as they were pretending to make fun of one another. All three of them came across as very individual, very distinct people, each of whom had a very strong personality, but together, the three of them just blended somehow. It was one of the loveliest family suppers I'd ever had, all the more lovely for the contrast with how nervous I had been about the interview earlier in the afternoon.

But finally, as the dinner ended, Florian started insisting that he wanted to show me a film we had been talking about, an old German silent film that he insisted he had based his sartorial style on. Faced with the prospect of another two hours spent watching a video, Sandhya finally put her foot down. "No, Flo, I'm quite sure that our guest is tired, and she needs to go home and go to bed."

"Never mind. I will just go and get the disc of the film, and she can borrow it and see for herself." And with this, Florian shuffled off upstairs to find this.

But Sandhya turned to me and smiled. "I am sorry we are keeping you here so late. He likes you, and he gets like this when he meets someone he likes. He is like a child with a new toy. You must come back some time; not as a journalist, but as our guest."

"I'd love to.. well, wow. I'd be honoured," I confessed, feeling more than a little overwhelmed by the whole evening.

"Here, here, take it. Borrow it, and watch it, and let me know what you think when you return it," directed Florian, dropping a DVD into my hands.

And then there was a brief discussion as to whether I needed a lift home, as they enquired whether I lived near or far, as it had got quite dark. But I assured them I lived close by, and that I would be fine - because honestly, 'never get into a car with Florian Schneider' was one lesson I had absorbed completely from my fandom. They saw me to the door, and waved me off, and Florian made some strange comment that he would ring me when he had made up his mind what he should play me.

I staggered off into the dark, making my way towards the bright lights of Königsallee, wondering how that chance encounter in the Cafe Bittner had turned into this. Any moment, I expected to wake up, and find myself back in my bed at the Berger Allee, and discover that the whole thing was just a dream. That I was out of a boyfriend, and out of a job, and out of luck, and none of this magical evening had ever happened. But then I looked into my bag, and saw the DVD, and saw the notebook brimming over with notes, and had to remind myself that yes, it had.

But then I made the mistake of pulling out my phone, because I breathlessly wanted to share this entire bizarre experience with someone... and my mood crashed. My telephone was still empty. Absolute silence from Ralf. And who else would I email about it? No one would believe me if I'd said I'd had family dinner with the Schneider-Eslebens. If I thought about the internet, well... Twitter? Forget it.   I never got over the distinct sense that Katrin was still reading every tweet I sent. Tumblr? After Katrin's last disturbing series of messages, I didn't even dare open my Tumblr app.

I opened my texts, and had a sudden longing to speak to Müller, because she at least knew Florian. Maybe she could help untangle his strange behaviour, tell me if my impressions were correct, and that Sandhya wasn't just trying to make me feel better. But I realised I couldn't even tell Müller, because honestly, if she was spying for Florian, who knew who else she might spill the gossip to. What if she was playing both sides against the middle?

So I stuffed my phone back into my bag, and trudged back towards the Rhine in a very odd and awkward mood.


	19. The Good Communist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ralf is back. Has he managed to work through the problems in his marriage?

I woke the next morning, not knowing what to do. It was a Wednesday, and normally I went into Klingklang on Wednesdays, but after being sent home on Monday, and the continued terrifying silence from Ralf, I didn't dare.

I got up and walked down to the Mediahafen and back, for exercise, then showered, ate breakfast, threw my dirty clothes in the washing machine and settled down in my room to work. At least I did have work I could be getting on with, picking back through the manuscript to slightly amend some of the conflicting passages with the new information I had gleaned from Florian.

And then finally, at just after noon, my phone rang. For some reason, I thought it might be Florian, probably because I was editing a story he had recounted, and I could almost hear his words, in his slow, soft voice, as I typed them out. But as I chirped "Hello" I realised from the beleaguered breathing at the other end of the line that I had guessed wrong.

"Where are you?" demanded Ralf, his quiet voice almost simmering with emotion. It was hard to tell worry from annoyance without seeing his face, but I guessed it was the latter, mostly because that was precisely what I was feeling, upon hearing his voice out of the blue after several days.

I stopped typing and tried to pull my thoughts back together. "I'm at home," I said, then added for precision "In my flat on the Berger Allee."

"It is Midweek," he said, very pointedly.

" _Wednesday_ ," I corrected testily, because I knew Ralf hated when he made basic errors in English. "I know what day it is, Ralf," I flipped back.

"You always come into the office on Wednesdays. Or have you resigned your post. Is this what you are trying to tell me by your absence?"

"Resigned?" I blurted out., feeling the colour rising in my face "I went into the office on Monday - on the tram, no less - only to be told by no less than three of our colleagues that there was no use for me, and that I should go home. So I decided to stay at home, until such time as you decided that you had a use for me again."

"I see," he said, though it was very clear from the hurt tone in his voice that he did not. Both of us remained quiet for some time, as the tension racked up in the empty space between two mobile phones. But finally, it was him that broke. "Katrin, I had a major crisis in my household that required my immediate attention. I could not come in to the office."

"Stop calling me that, it is your daughter's name," I snapped, though I cut myself off before I could add 'and she is an attention-seeking psychopath'.

"I am sorry," he said quietly. Did my ears deceive me, or did Ralf Hütter actually just apologise? I wished I had been taping the conversation, so I could rewind it and play it back to check. "Are you planning on coming in today at all?"

"It doesn't look like it, no. Apart from anything, I don't have my bike."

"Well, if you will not come to me, I will come to you. We need to talk. And..." Here his voice faltered slightly, so that I could hear the tension in it. "I will bring your bike."

I felt suddenly bereft and furious and panicked, all at the same time. No, this just wasn't fair, to disappear off the face of the earth for three days straight, and then just come back and immediately demand my attention. "I don't know that I'm ready to talk."

"I will be there in half an hour," he said, and the phone went dead.

I almost screamed aloud with frustration as I threw the phone down onto the desk. "Fuck you, Ralf. Fuck you." But then, I flew around in a hurry, trying to tidy the evidence of my abandoned attempt at packing and leaving. I saw the Klingklang notebook, open on my desk, full of Florian's words, and quickly closed it, then hid it deep inside my desk under a pile of receipts and scrap paper. I made the bed and did the dishes, then made myself a cup of tea I was almost too nervous to drink, sitting in the front room and sipping it as I tried to keep half an eye on the street for Ralf's car.

He must have come from the opposite direction, as the front doorbell rang abruptly and caught me by surprise. "It is me," he said into the intercom, as if it could be anyone else. It took him forever to come up, but finally there was a soft tap on the door to the apartment. I opened it, and there he stood, dark circles under his eyes, looking very grim, and suddenly very old. I remembered at that moment, that he was six months older than Florian, and for the first time, he actually looked it. "I have left your bicycle chained, downstairs in the lobby, as the door to the basement was locked, and I did not want to carry it up so many flights of stairs."

"Thank you," I said coldly, and stood aside to let him enter. Although I had hoped to divert him into the living room, where we would have to be discreet, he walked around me and headed back towards the kitchen, pushing through into my bedroom. "Wait, what are you doing... who invited you..." I demanded, chasing after him.

"We need to talk. Privately," he insisted, closing the door behind me and locking it.

I stood with my arms crossed, staring at him. "So talk." After three days of silence, worry and anxiety had turned to cold fury.

"Kah... Kate." I was not used to hearing him call me by my own name. "I..." But then he stepped towards me, cupping my face in his hands.

"Don't," I said, though I did not trust my voice. “Don’t you dare.”

For several, almost endless seconds, we just stared at each other wordlessly, my body feeling slightly prickly, simply at the nearness of him. For a horrible moment, as his eyebrows narrowed, I thought he was going to argue with me, even shout at me, but all of a sudden, his expression seemed to collapse, and he did the strangest thing.

His body crumpled, as he sank down to his knees beside me, gazing up at me as he took my hand and gently, devotedly, started to lick the skin of my hand. Without taking his eyes from mine, he worked his way lower, pulled my fingers into his mouth and sucked them, hungrily, one by one. The naked need in his eyes almost scared me, this man I respected, maybe even worshipped a little, prepared to abase himself in front of me. 

"Ralf, stop it, you're..." I almost begged. My mind fought against emotions, remaining furious at him, but my body betrayed me, growing aroused at the pressure of his lips and tongue, sucking at my flesh. His mouth left my hand, moved to my stomach as he pushed my turtleneck out of the way, caressing my protruding belly with his lips and mouth as if he wanted to make love to my fat. "Why are you doing this? I'm not beautiful; I'm not even hot." I tried to push his head away, but he caught my hand in his own, and turned it into a caress, cupping my hand against his cheek until I found myself running his fingers through my hair.

"I desire you," he said, rubbing his face back and forth across my stomach. "I desire this body, because it is yours, and I want _you_. Don't you understand that?"

"I'm not even attractive," I protested.

He looked up at me sharply, his eyes confused. "You are attractive to me. I don't understand why you can't see this. Attractiveness is not some inert, abstract physical quality that simply exists independently in the body of a woman. It is a chemistry, a dynamic between two people. It's a harmonic vibration between you and me. One soundwave doesn't simply harmonise on its own; it's the way that two soundwaves combine and interact. It's not about whether C is attractive, as a note. You are C, and I am G, and we just _go_ together..."

It was too late to argue. He was kissing me urgently now, his hands around my back, his lips against my skin, his tongue working its way up my body towards my breasts. For a few minutes, my mind continued to fight against the idea, but my body would forgive him anything. I started to respond to him, caressing his hair and growing more aroused, as I felt his hands moving upwards, tugging my shirt over my head and pulling my breasts free of my bra.

The moment his mouth touched my bare nipple, I turned to jelly. I knew I would do anything he asked, wrapping my arms around his waist and pulling him up to his feet, pulling his shirt out of his waistband. His mouth met mine, and we were kissing in earnest now. He had got my bra off, and was working on unfastening my jeans. Suddenly, the bed loomed large, as I realised he was pushing me down against the mattress. Almost clawing at my clothes, he pulled jeans and pants off all in one bundle, dragging them from my body in his haste. His hand was between my legs, searching, and I almost resented my body for responding to his touch, for growing wet, for yearning for him, his fingers leaving me singing in anticipation of the rest of him. I might have cursed him, but my thighs opened as if of their own accord, to allow him to enter me. He held me down, thrusting my face into the mattress as he pushed inside me, and suddenly there was nothing in the world but those inches where our bodies were joined. Blindly, I thrust back at him, raising my hips to meet him, matching his rhythm as he ploughed into me.

It seemed to last forever, an eternity of the two of us grunting and wrestling, our thighs slick with our juices as we coupled with violence as much as lust, as if each of us were trying to beat the other with our thighs and hips, slamming into one another deliberately. And yet at the same time, it was all over far too quickly, Ralf's breaths growing short as I could feel him approaching orgasm. He came quickly, his hips jerking wildly, then stilled. But as he slumped back against the mattress, he pulled me back down with him, his hand searching between my thighs. His fingers slipped between my labia, and I could feel him searching for my heartbeat, trying to pull me towards orgasm. For a breathless moment, I resisted him, but then gave up, put my hand on top of his, and prepared for orgasm to wash across my body.

"You are still my mistress," he insisted, as I could feel the climax building beneath his fingertips, kneading me mercilessly. "You are still mine."

"Yes," I sighed, and gave into the pressure, as I felt pleasure break between my legs.

It wasn't a very deep orgasm, fairly shallow and quick, rather than one of those pervasive, endless climaxes that seemed to roll back down my spine. But the sense of relief that followed it was the same, as he lay with his arms around me, pressing tiny kisses into the back of my neck. We lay like that, my face mashed against the mattress, for some time, until slowly, reluctantly, I turned to face him, returning those little kisses with kisses of my own, kissing his cheek, his jaw, his chin, his nose, and finally his lips.

I didn't want to talk. I didn't want to ruin the animal magic of the moment, lying back against him and pressing my nose into his chest, inhaling his scent. His skin felt too familiar, the weight of him, his heavy, reassuring presence. When we didn't talk, when it was just two slowing heartbeats and an expanse of skin, I could pretend that nothing had changed between us, and that everything was alright.

But his words broke the silence. "Do you love me?" he whispered into my hair, and I looked at his face and saw again how tired he was, the dark circles under his eyes, the lines of worry deepened around his mouth.

"Yes. It looks like I still do," I sighed. Why couldn't we leave aside this whole loving business, and just leave it at fucking? Fucking was easy. We had grown very good at fucking.

"I can't live without you," he said, though his voice was flattened of emotion, as if he were merely stating some fact of nature.

A thousand sharp retorts built up behind my tongue, crowding my mouth, but as I saw the expression in his eyes, I sighed deeply and let them roll away, unsaid, to the dark corners of my mind. "Are you going to tell me what happened?" I asked, trying to smooth his hair, curled up into little tufts by the sweat of our exertion.

"Not now. Let me catch my breath." 

"When?" Now he had raised it, now he had broken the spell of silence by asking for my love, I felt I had to chase down the rest of it like a terrier.

He let go of me for a moment, and rubbed his face dragging his hands down across his eyes. "Mein Gott, Kah... Kate. I need a cup of coffee."

"OK, I'll get up and make one." I kissed him tenderly, then climbed out of bed. Wrapping my bathrobe around me, I dashed quickly to the bathroom to clean myself up, then returned to the kitchen to boil the kettle and fill the cafetiere. But when I returned to the bedroom, with coffeepot, two cups, milk and sugar on a tray, I found Ralf staring at the DVD that Florian had lent me. I had left it out by the television the previous evening, with the intention of watching, and clearly forgotten it in my mad rush to clear up.

"This was Florian's favourite film," he observed, his face filled with an almost indescribable emotion. There were moments, but only rare ones, when he suddenly seemed painfully aware that he had lost something important to him with Florian's departure.

"Look, I've made you coffee. Now please, just tell me what happened with your wife." I took the DVD case from him before he could examine it too closely, and put it away on top of a bookcase still full of Karlheinz's German language books, as if it merely were something I'd borrowed from my landlord.

For a few minutes, there was silence, as Ralf depressed the plunger of the coffeepot, then poured us each a cup of coffee. As he drank, some of the exhaustion seemed to lift from his face.

"We are at an impasse, my wife and I," he finally said.

My innards seemed to curl in on themselves, or perhaps that was only the coffee on an empty stomach. I wondered if what Katrin had said was true. "Please tell me she did not leave you."

He eyed me warily, still sipping his coffee. It was like he did not seem to understand, why I wanted him to stay with his wife. "For a short time, it looked like she was going to. She did walk out on me, on Sunday night, after the truth came out."

"Did you tell her, or did Katrin?" I asked, not really wanting to know the answer to that.

Ralf nervously swallowed the rest of his coffee, then put the cup aside. "I fear I handled it very badly. I am not good at these matters. I brought the two of them together, and sat them both down, thinking I would have the whole thing out, with both of them, rather than have to discuss the difficult conversation twice."

I winced, only imagining how badly this could backfire, but said nothing.

"So I said to both of them, 'well, it seems our daughter has made an unfortunate discovery, and wishes for answers. Rather than allowing lies to turn two against one, I want the truth out, in front of all three of us. Yes, you have found me out. I have been having an affair,' I told them. I thought it would be for the best to be honest with them both."

I put my face into my hands, wincing with embarrassment on his behalf at how badly he had handled it. My own father had once put me in the middle, between his 'girlfriend' and my mother, but at least that had been over the telephone, and not all three of us in a room together. "Oh, Ralf, that was possibly the worst way to negotiate it."

"Yes," he said simply, turning his hands palm up. "My wife was furious; she felt it was inappropriate and unfair to raise the matter in front of our daughter. She considered it a private matter between her and myself, which our daughter should never have been party to. Never mind that our daughter was the one who found us out. I could hardly tell one but not the other. But our daughter was also furious. So what was I to do?"

I shook my head slowly, wondering if he had grasped the whole truth about his own daughter's motives.

"Our daughter fled and locked herself in the bathroom. It's what she does when she's very, very angry. There was shouting, and banging, which is never a good sign. She slams doors, she sometimes breaks things when she is that angry. She throws temper tantrums and bangs her head, like a small child."

Pressing the palms of my hands against my eyes, I thought of how often my autistic meltdowns has been classed as 'temper tantrums' and ignored. Suddenly, I felt even more guilty for how I had ended my friendship with Katrin. "Ralf, I know she's difficult, but she has Asperger's. They may not be something she is in control of. She needs your concern, not your..."

But he cut me off. "I _was_ concerned for my daughter, but I was more concerned for my wife. Jutta had fled in the opposite direction. She insisted we have our fight in private, in my office, my inner sanctum, because it is the only place in the house one cannot be overheard." He sighed deeply, and poured another cup of coffee, lapsing into silence.

I sat, just staring at him stupidly, thinking about this strange woman whose husband I was sleeping with, in a way I'd never wanted to think about her before. Jutta, to be honest, had always seemed a sort of shadowy figure. I supposed I thought of her almost like a maid, a woman who flitted about the house, took care of Ralf and Katrin, made them dinner and did their laundry, then flitted off to go and do good deeds with the Benevolent Ladies of Krefeld. I had never stopped to think of her as a woman, as a betrayed wife, as a proud human being who would insist on going behind closed doors to fight with her cheating husband.

But Ralf took my silence as a sign that it was alright for him to stop talking, sitting back and sipping his coffee sullenly.

"I don't suppose Jutta is the door-slamming type." It was odd to say her name aloud. We never did. She was always just 'your wife', if we spoke of her at all.

Ralf sighed deeply, and it felt like dragging a heavy weight to get him to go on, his voice slow at first, but then gathering speed. "She was furious, but not for the reasons that I would think. She told me wasn't actually angry over the affair - she said she had guessed as much, months ago, and decided just to live with it. She said it did not appear to be a serious thing; she thought it would burn itself out once the book was finished."

I winced at that, realising that Jutta was far more perceptive than I had given her credit for. I had always known that the intensity of the relationship with Ralf was almost certainly down to the intimacy of the creative process we were engaging together. But once we had started sleeping together, I never gave much thought to how it would end.

"She said that not to know - not to _want_ to know - was easier. She learned this from childhood, as a good Communist. The key to being happy under the Stasi was to actively choose not to see certain things. So she was angry that I _told_ her, that I shattered her state of happy denial. This she could not forgive. I do not think I will ever understand women, as long as I live." Ralf was looking at me, like he expected me to translate his own wife's emotions for him.

"I suppose I understand why she felt that way," I stuttered, sipping at my cooling coffee. "What she did not know could not hurt her. So to be told - and so publicly - something she had deliberately chosen to turn a blind eye to... she felt humiliated."

"Publicly?" Ralf shook his head. "But I kept it inside our family... I didn't want to have to tell one, and then explain afterwards to the other... To have to confront Katrin first, find out what she knew, and then improvise, extravise, extrapolate what to tell her mother... no. I wanted it all out at once. No more secrets. No more lies."

"Ralf, to tell her in front of her own daughter... do you not recognise how much Katrin resents her mother? Do you not understand that the two of them are, somehow in competition?"

"It is a teenage thing. It will pass..." said Ralf, waving his hand dismissively. "Even you said so."

I stared at him, wondering if I'd given him the wrong advice. To be fair, I had never tried to blackmail my father's girlfriends. "Ralf, I would take Katrin's behavioural problems a little more seriously."

"Katrin is not my biggest concern right now. My wife left on Sunday night. She packed an overnight bag and went; she would not tell me where. I think she wanted me to worry at home for a change, waiting for her. I let her go. I had a pretty good idea where she had gone - she has her allies in the Benevolent Ladies. The next morning, after I had slept on it and thought things over, I went to find her, to find out what she wanted to do. Katrin was refusing to go to school - I had to get my sister to take her in hand. My sister is one of the few people who can control Katrin. She is like the grandmother that Katrin never met."

"Well, I'm relieved that someone can," I said a little cattily, then quickly turned the conversation back onto the other path. "What does your wife want?"

"I don't think she even knows what she wants. At first, she said she was going to leave me, she was going to take our daughter and go, and clean me out - I suppose she means in financial terms." He raised one hand, palm up, to show that this part did not concern him.

"Oh god," I muttered, thinking how badly Katrin's plans had backfired, if this was the outcome.

"But when I said I would agree to whatever she wanted, I think she was angry that I did not put up a fight. So she changed her mind. She wanted me to leave. I told her I would not; it was mine and my sister's house, and it was not up to her to kick me out. There were legal terms in my parents' wills that prevent either of us from selling it without the consent of the other, or our heirs. She knew this when we married. So then she changes her tune again. Yesterday, she moved back into the house. She just came, with a car full of groceries, and restocked the kitchen. All of Katrin's favourite foods. Katrin is funny about food, you see. A bit like me."

"You're not funny about food, are you?" I asked, smiling to myself as I remembered the first meal we had eaten together, how he carefully separated out all of the different components of the meal, so that they did not touch. I supposed I had just got used to it, to the point where it no longer seemed odd. It was just how Ralf ate.

"Well, my wife thinks I am. But for Katrin, it is far more pronounced..." Ralf took a deep breath and started to explain. "Certain foods have to be certain brands; noodles, breakfast cereals and the like. And Katrin can tell if the brand is incorrect, if the colour, or the texture, or even the packaging is not right. My wife does not normally pay attention to this sort of thing. She thinks only of the value of the food products she purchases. I have to remind her, there are things Katrin will and won't eat, and it is not good value if the food goes to waste. When my wife came back, I saw, she had bought only the brands that Katrin likes."

Ralf and I exchanged meaningful glances. It was at moments like that, that I saw The Spectrum as some kind of distinctive link, some definite connection that flowed between me and him, and him and his daughter. This thing about foods with the wrong texture. It was the kind of thing that someone with Aspergers would instantly grok, and a neurotypical would never understand. "So you think that your wife intends to stay. It certainly sounds like a peace offering to Katrin."

But he shrugged helplessly. "I don't know what she intends to do; if she just intends to carry on with the marriage as if nothing has happened. Or if she thinks that this will win over Katrin and force me out. I have been through wars of attrition before. Not in a marriage, but in a band."

"Did she mention me?" As i said, I felt my own voice start to quiver with emotion.

For a long time, Ralf said nothing, avoiding my gaze, before finally announcing, with cold conviction. "As I said, we are at an impasse."

I stared at him. I didn't dare to ask where he had slept. If indeed, he had slept at all, from the state of the dark circles under his eyes. I wanted to push him, wanted to ask him what she had said about me, my jealousy and my curiosity flaring up in a toxic strew, until I internally heard myself demanding 'but I have a right to know' in such an uncanny echo of Katrin's wheedling voice that I instantly felt ashamed of the thought.

"Are you even supposed to be here?" I sighed.

Ralf raised his head and I could see something light up in his eyes, like he was going to lawyer me on this point, and I suddenly recalled another conversation with Katrin. I could not remember if it was her first joyride to Düsseldorf or her last, but I remembered distinctly admonishing her 'you are not even allowed to travel about Düsseldorf unaccompanied' and she had fixed me with that exact same lawyerly expression, and retorted 'Well, I'm not unaccompanied. You are with me.' meaning I could not walk away from the shopping trip without making myself the one that was violating the terms of her curfew.

But Ralf shrugged, his jaw set. "She did not say."

"Don't do this, Ralf. You know damned well that 'she did not forbid it' is not the same as 'she allowed it.'"

The set to Ralf's jaw became harder. "When I say, she did not say, I mean she did not say. We have not discussed you since she returned."

"Well, what have you discussed?" slipped out before I could even stop myself from saying it, a jealous, green-eyed monster that took control of my tongue.

"Mostly, she has been concerned with Katrin. Katrin has taken the whole thing very badly. She does not take kindly to change, especially change of such an upsetting nature."

The words fell, and then there was silence between us. I wanted to take my words back, wanted to roll them up and eat them, like swallowing a baby burp of acid reflux. In an awful way, I felt more responsible for Katrin's pain than Jutta's. Maybe just because I'd met Katrin so many times; or maybe because that streak of Asperger's meant I could truly understand more what that kind of upset was like. I had grown so used to thinking of Katrin as a spoiled, entitled child with alarming behaviour, that I had forgotten Katrin really did have problems.

Finally, I managed to scrape together the voice to reply. "Ralf, you should not be here. You should be at home, looking after your family."

His eyes looked suddenly terribly wounded. "I don't want to give you up. I don't know that that is something I can do right now. Things are falling apart at home. I _need_ you. I need you to be understanding for me."

I stared at him, feeling terror coalescing in my heart. I didn't want to bear that much responsibility. There was a huge part of me that wanted to throw it back at him: things are falling apart at home because _you_ had an affair. I can't look after you. I can't even take care of a cat. I can't be your wife. I didn't sign up to take care of you, or look after your insane daughter. But then, I sighed deeply, and moved towards him, putting my arms around him and pulling him close to me, letting him collapse against my chest. Jutta's odd behaviour, ignoring me, concentrating on her daughter, it made me realise that there had been an awful rift in that family long before I came on the scene.


	20. Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Ralf's promise of protection, Katrin T swallows her pride and returns to Klingklang. And slowly, often through other mediums, they try to talk about what it is that they are doing together.

For a long time, the two of us just stayed together like that, me holding Ralf, gently rocking him and stroking his hair. He didn't cry, he didn't make a sound, he just lay there in my bedroom, his eyes closed, his arms around my waist, squeezing me gently. If I had thought that him confessing to his wife would resolve issues between the three – no, four – of us, I had underestimated just how much more complicated things could become.

After what felt like forever, there was a sound, deep off in the other end of the flat. For a moment, I cringed, wondering if my landlord was home, and how I would explain the presence of a naked man in my room, but the click transformed into a whirring buzz, that I recognised as the ringing of the ancient house phone.

Ralf raised his head, and looked about him. "Do you have to answer that?" 

"No, it's for Karlheinz. He has a machine."

"I should dress," he announced, as if only just comprehending his nakedness. "It's nearly time for lunch. Will you come for a meal with me?" 

"I... alright." A free meal was a free meal.

"And will you come back to work at Klingklang this afternoon?" Ralf stood up and cast about for his pants, his face creased, as if wondering how they had got kicked off all the way over there. 

I froze, realising we had to go through this all over again. "I don't know that that is such a good idea."

"Why?" He picked up a pair of black trousers, tried to put his feet in them, then realised that they were mine, and handed them to me.

I extracted my underpants from one of the legs and put them on, before donning the trousers. "My love, all sorts of people at the studio... they know about us." 

Ralf whirled around, shocked, as the knowledge seemed to spread across his face. "Who?" he demanded.

"Müller, Gudrun, Günter, at least. I mean, Gudrun even tried to warn me, several months back, that we were less discreet than we thought we were. But I was too naive to understand what she was telling me, let alone listen." I felt like a rat, telling him this, but his face was puzzled. 

"No one mentioned it to me..." A sharp intake of breath. "How far has this spread?"

"I don't know." I shook my head. "But I don't think it has left the building. Your team, Ralf, they're all willing to lie for you. I think some of them would even take a bullet for you." I diplomatically decided to leave out the part about how some of them would clearly still lie or take a bullet for Florian, as well. 

"Then you have nothing to fear. I will vouch for you. They will accept it."

I just looked at him from underneath my hair, wondering how on earth he was going to accomplish that, as I stopped to take a clean shirt from the laundry rack. I had just done the wash that morning, and the only thing that had dried was the mallard green silk shirt I had worn to Florian's. Wrapping it around my shoulders, I fumbled with the buttons, though I did not reply. 

"We will arrive together," he assured me, moving towards me and placing his hands on either arm. "No one will say a word against you, if you are with me."

"If you are sure you want to risk it," I said quietly, but Ralf was frowning down at my chest, his fingers fidgeting against the silk fabric of my shirt. "What? What is it?" 

"I do not recognise this garment? You were wearing a different shirt this morning. I liked that shirt, you look very attractive in it."

I reached almost automatically for the neck of the shirt to unfasten the buttons, then stopped. It was the kind of throwaway compliment I had simply stopped even hearing. Usually, if Ralf indicated that he liked something I wore, I would wear it again, just to please him, but words kept echoing in my head, his bandmates' words about how he had been subtly changing me. "What's wrong with this shirt?" I asked, hoping I sounded innocent.

Ralf didn't bat an eyelid. "It does not fit you so well, my love. The black shirt is more... form-fitting. I know you will find me sentimental, perhaps, but I enjoy gazing at your feminine form. I find your figure pleasing, as a man appreciating the curves of a woman. Indulge me?"

I picked the tight black turtleneck off the floor and sniffed it, worrying that it might stink of sex, then, finding it passably clean, pulled it over my head. Ralf smiled at me contentedly and gazed at me with an appreciation resembling desire, but for once his approval felt oddly oppressive. I had never liked looking like, or being _read_ as a woman. And yet I realised, with the subtle pressure of his approval, he had been slowly moulding me to dress like one.

But Ralf misread the source of my frown, and only smiled more broadly. "I do not know why you never believe me, Katrin, but I do enjoy to look at you. To me, you are beautiful. _Bei mir, bist du schön_ , as the old song goes." I did my best to smile at him as he moved closer again, and kissed me tenderly on the cheek, but dis-ease still nagged at me as I collected my things and prepared to leave the apartment. It wasn't until we were already on the way to his car that I realised he had slipped back to calling me by the wrong name.

He wanted to go to Cafe Bittner for lunch. I refused, though I would not tell him why. To be honest, I was more afraid of running into Florian than Katrin. We settled on a Japanese vegetarian restaurant in Oberkassel, on the way back to the studio, and I loaded my bike onto the back of his car again. We ate lunch, mostly in silence, and he paid - he always paid - and left for the studio.

We climbed out of the car together. He unloaded the bike, then waited as I stowed it away in the Klingklang bike rack. Then I looked up at the door.

"Are you scared? Do you want me to hold your hand?" teased Ralf.

"That won't be necessary," I scolded, and climbed the stairs, tapping my pass against the lock, though I was a tiny bit terrified that my access would be denied. The door popped open, and I stepped through, as Ralf followed, tapping his own pass against the pad to signal that he had returned. I winced, thinking of how often Müller and I slipped in and out on each other's taps on our tea breaks.

>>Hallo!<< called out Ralf as he passed the front office, and Gudrun responded almost immediately.

>>Are you back, dear? I have some things that need to be signed...<< 

Ralf sighed and rolled his eyes, but changed course to go into the office. I shrugged, and started to move away, to just go upstairs and wait for him, but he caught me by the elbow and tugged me to follow him into the room. >>Yes, let me see?<< he said, and took the folder from Gudrun, as Gudrun stared at me. I tried to avoid her eyes as Ralf flipped through invoices, receipts, letters, whatever they were that required his attention or signature. As he handed them back, she caught his eye and stared for a moment, then narrowed her eyes and flicked her gaze across to me before gazing back at him meaningfully.

>>Is there anything else?<< asked Ralf, his face calm.

>>Erm<< said Gudrun, glancing even more pointedly at me. 

>>Whatever it is, you can tell me in front of Katrin<< he responded, and I cringed internally, though I did not dare contradict him in front of Gudrun.

Gudrun sighed deeply then almost hissed >>Your wife called.<< 

A flicker of tension across Ralf's jaw. >>And what did she want?<<

Clearing her throat, Gudrun shifted her weight from one foot to the other. >>She wanted to know if the property here is owned by you, personally, or by Kraftwerk GmbH.<<

There was a vein in Ralf's forehead that sometimes stood out when he was displeased. The vein was throbbing, but other than that, his face remained calm. >>And what did you tell her?<<

>>I told her if she wanted that information, that she could ask Frau Double-Barrel for it.<< I recognised the name; it was the lawyer that had precipitated Ralf's and my first conversations.

A smile cracked Ralf's impassive face. >>Thank you.<<

Gudrun looked back and forth between us, her face burning with curiosity, but then she shrugged, muttered >>It is sausage to me<< under her breath, and went back to her work. As we exited the room, and started to walk down the corridor I felt Ralf reach for me, touching the small of my back, and trying to pull me towards him, as if for reassurance. I put my hand on his shoulder gently, wondering if I risked a brief embrace, but as luck would have it, of course that was the moment that Müller emerged whistling from the ladies' toilet.

I saw her first, and froze, remembering our last conversation. She looked back and forth between the two of us, as her expression of shock turned to a knowing smirk, though this was directed mostly at me, not at him.

Deciding to throw caution to the wind, I completed my motion, squeezing Ralf gently in a half-shoulder-hug, then depositing the tiniest bare peck of a kiss against the side of his cheek. For a moment he started, shocked, but then his face crumpled into that softest, gentlest little-boy smile of mingled pleasure and embarrassment as he glanced across at me and squeezed back.

The moment passed in silence, as Müller stepped back, and gestured for us to go past. I shrugged and smiled at her, Ralf moved his arm from the small of my back to the side of my elbow, but continued to hang onto me, as if for dear life, as we passed through into the kitchen. I made a cup of tea and a cup of coffee as Ralf shifted things about in the fridge, then we took them, and climbed the stairs one after another, with me leading. And for the rest of the afternoon, we worked, on the book, as I pulled my laptop out of my shoulder bag, and settled down to get him to commit to edits.

I cycled home with a curious mix of emotions. On one hand, I couldn't help it: elation. Despite everything, I loved Ralf, foolishly or not, and that tiny public acknowledgement, the kiss, the squeeze, it made my heart sing with hope. We might yet have a future together! But as for the rest of it... Guilt, fear, anxiety, my conscience churning up my stomach, the knowledge that what we were doing was wrong, an awful horrible chasm where my empathy for Jutta and her family should have been. Awful, awful, awful. All of it was awful.

When I got home, and tumbled into bed, I checked my phone one more time, and my heart froze. For fucks sake, I had blocked her from my Tumblr, so why was she back in my yahoo inbox again?

'hi it's me. i don't know if ur still mad at me. but i just wanted to let you know. i edited my blog posts the way you suggested. they are up on my tumblr now. if you wanted to continue to edit for me... well i'm still down if you are. katrin.'

Sighing deeply, I opened Tumblr, and clicked through to Zeitpunkt. I cast my eye over the top post, expecting a review of a concert or a record. But in typical Katrin form, although a band and song title were listed at the top, and the piece was formatted as if it were a review, within a sentence or two, she had abandoned all pretence that she was talking about the record, and had launched into a little story from her life. >>Have you ever fallen out with a friend? Like, a really bad fall-out, where you don't even know what you did wrong, but it just keeps getting worse and worse, and you are made to feel like you should offer an apology, but you don't even know what it is that you should be offering the apology for? Well, that is the sentiment behind the new single, _Sorry Not Sorry_ , and, given recent events in my life, it is a sentiment I can completely understand and relate to...<<

I slammed the app shut, then returned to my email and hit reply before I really thought about what I was doing, and typed out 'I don't know what part of DON'T CONTACT ME AGAIN you didn't understand, but when I said don't contact me again, I meant don't email me, don't message me, don't like my posts, don't reblog my posts, don't send me little messages, don't sub-Tumble me on your fucking blog like you think I'm reading...' but then I stopped myself.

Taking a deep breath, I deleted the text, then hit cancel on the email, and hit the button for no, I do not want to save a draft. I knew that what she wanted was a response, and she didn't care if it was good or bad. It was clear that writing her, even to tell her not to contact me anymore was only going to provoke more endless emails. I closed her email, but I did not delete it. Something made me just move it across into a folder called 'saved mail'.

In the morning, my inbox was quiet. It stayed that way all afternoon, and all evening. It was a Thursday, and I found myself wondering if Katrin still went to pony club, or if that was a childish thing she had given up. Still, it meant a bored Ralf sitting in the car, texting me as he waited for her.

By Friday, things were back to some semblance of normal. I cycled to Klingklang, and gossiped for a bit with Müller, though we did our best to avoid the topic of what I was doing with our boss. Ralf arrived, and I followed him upstairs for our now habitual sex followed by a shower, followed by several hours of work.

But in the evening, he went off script, asking me if I'd like to see a film. He had been given two complimentary tickets to a theatre in Düsseldorf, and asked if I would like to accompany him. I said why not, and he loaded my bike onto the back of his car, and off we went.

"I think you will like it," said Ralf, as we parked, and made our way into the theatre. "It is a Science Fiction film. About a linguist. A translator who has to work out how to decode the communication of a vastly alien but highly intelligent interplanetary species."

"That sounds oddly like my job," I teased, and squeezed his hand as we walked through into the theatre.

"Are you saying I am an alien?" he laughed.

"No, we all know. You are definitely a robot. I am decoding machine language, when I am with you."

It felt oddly like a date. We held hands in the dark; I couldn't even remember the last time I'd been to a film with a lover, but he sat, thoughtful and rapt, gently stroking or squeezing my fingers according to the plot twists. The film was in English, with German subtitles, so I did not have to pay close attention, glancing at him often to observe his reactions. He sat rapt, staring at the screen, and did not break the spell of this other world, even as I kept scoffing slightly at implausible plot twists.

We went for dinner afterwards; a nice meal, wine, candlelight, as we discussed the film. I looked forward to the conversation, realising, with a start, that it was the first time since the South American tour when we had spent a conversation discussing something else, a piece of art, a film, rather than constantly discussing Kraftwerk or discussing Ralf. I liked it; it made me feel that we were friends again. I enjoyed exchanging thoughts, comparing reactions with Ralf, but of course we had different opinions on everything.

"The biggest thing that annoyed me was, well, that's not what Sapir-Whorf _means_ ," I protested. "The idea was, that the structure and vocabulary of the language you speak somehow limits or dictates or shapes what ideas you can express, and how. It does not mean that language literally _changes_ your brain; that's absurd."

"It is an interesting idea, though," mused Ralf as he removed his vegetable garnish from his main course and cut off tiny pieces. "And I have found it often to be the case. When one learns to truly speak another language - English, for example, or French - not just to speak it casually, but to truly be able to _think_ in that language. Not just to use the metaphors, but to understand them on both levels. It changes what one says, and how one can say it. Not just vocabulary, but the very tenses and so forth. To translate lyrics... which are emotional, and poetic? It is sometimes impossible."

"I can't imagine you finding translation impossible. You seem to love to play with words and concepts as you toss them from one language to another. It's interesting to watch as the language changes the meaning ever so slightly."

"Well." Ralf smiled, pleased with the little compliment as he separated the onion from the lettuce in his garnish, and ate each sequentially in turn. "Tour de France, for example. I have tried, many times to translate this text into German, or English, but I cannot. The fluidity of French contains the poetry of cycling in a way that English or German is too technical."

"Too technical. You," I laughed.

"Well, yes, for the subject. Cycling is all Technik in German, but what I wished to get across in that song was the emotion, the sensation, the romance of the race... To speak of romance and sentiment is easier in French than in German. To speak of love in some languages is always more difficult than others. To make love to a woman in English is a different thing than to make love to a woman in German." His eyes twinkled as he said this, and he raised his eyebrows at me as if flirting.

But I did not like the implication in that statement - was he trying to compare making love to me, to making love to Jutta? That was not a fair thing to be doing. The waiter came and cleared our plates. After we ordered desert, I took the interruption as a chance to change subject.

"I didn't like the romance sub-plot in that film, either. It felt so tacked on, so unnecessary. The story of learning the linguistics and grammar of this alien language was so interesting - so why on earth did they have to stick romance and motherhood into it, as well? They only did that because the lead character was a woman. People always feel that they have to make women wives and mothers in order to make them likeable, to make them relatable." And then I stopped, realising once again that I was accidentally echoing our own situation.

"No, no, I disagree, most strenuously," countered Ralf, removing the wafer from his ice cream before attacking it. "The memories - which turned out to be foreshadowings - this was integral to understanding the entire plot of the film. How, with this new language, memory becomes circular. The memories that echo most strongly through life, the ones that are the most important, the most central, they are of _love_. How becoming a parent completely changes you. If I had understood how much becoming a parent would change me, I would have done it much earlier. I probably would have been much happier."

I felt something twist inside me. "Would you have written the songs that you did, if you had been happy, if you had not been so lonely? And would you have been able to work as hard as you did, if you had been a parent?" I said, perhaps a little maliciously.

Ralf stopped, and seemed to consider this, his smile faltering. "Perhaps you are right. But then, perhaps that is why that plot affected me so deeply. If you know, ahead of time, that the same thing that brings you such joy and happiness, will also bring you such pain, do you leap into it, and do it anyway? It is easier, in some ways, to take a leap into the unknown - but to take a leap into something with your eyes open, knowing in advance what it will ask of you - that is much harder. To have a child, and not know if they will be healthy or not, one takes that risk. To have a child, even knowing... this child will be autistic, for example, and struggle constantly through life. But this autistic child will bring you and your family such joy, such happiness. Do you accept that fate, or do you run from it. I am thinking on this subject a great deal, since watching the film."

I looked at him, and suddenly saw why that plot was resonating with him so much - Katrin. He was thinking of his daughter. The terminally ill daughter in the film, in his eyes, it was Katrin. Annoying, demanding, dangerous, sharp, clever, curious, oddly charming, loveable Katrin.

I took a spoon of ice cream and swallowed carefully, then tried to drag out my discomfort with that plot, even knowing that I wasn't really talking about the film at heart, either. "I know that you were seeing that plot, through the eyes of a parent. But I couldn't help but watch the film through the eyes of the husband. Sure, the wife had known everything, when she was going into the decision to have a child, even knowing that child would be terminally ill, would die while still young. But the husband... he knew nothing! Sure, he didn't learn the language and change his brain to be circular, but... she chose to keep that knowledge from him. She did not tell him. It wasn't even the fact that she _knew_ that made him leave. But the fact that she kept that knowledge from him. That made their decision so unequal. Maybe, if she had respected him enough to tell him, he would have trusted her, and embraced her decision to have the child anyway. But she withheld that knowledge, and therefore prevented him from making that choice on an equal footing. How could he ever trust her again?"

Ralf looked across the table, his deep blue eyes examining me with a penetrating gaze, as if he were trying to evaluate the hidden meaning behind what I was saying about them, as relating to us. "Maybe she was trying to protect him."

"Or maybe she was just selfish, and wanted to keep all of the choice that she chose to herself." The conversation, which had previously flowed easily, suddenly felt very tense, as the web of double meanings seemed to tighten around us like a trap.

"You always say," said Ralf slowly, without even the edge of a smile. "As you take your birth control pills, that it is a woman's right to choose. Is it not."

I laughed, and the whole web of tensions and double meanings we had woven around the film suddenly blew away. It was only a film. "It is," I asserted. "I do just wish they'd spent more of the plot on the really fascinating stuff - the acquisition of language, the vocabulary that they chose, that fascinating translation software they were using..."

"That was pretty cool," admitted Ralf. "It is even better than your little oracle you keep in your pocket to consult on the meaning of obscure German words."

"And do you know what I really did like best? That it was the soft subjects - the humanities, linguistics, the arts - that saved humanity in the end. Not physics, not chemistry, all of which were useless against this threat that was also an opportunity. It was language that saved humanity. Not bombs and guns. In fact, it was language that saved us _from_ bombs and guns."

"Yes," said Ralf, with a little nod, as he finished his ice cream and returned the desert spoon to the dish. "I definitely liked that. But what I liked best, was that the couple in the film fell in love through arguing, and through working together, because they loved each other's intelligence. That, too, I also liked."

I couldn’t help but think of Florian, hearing his words echoing in my head. ‘You have discovered something about Ralf, that even Ralf himself has forgotten.’ Maybe, just maybe, Ralf was remembering that he needed the disagreements.

As we walked back from the restaurant on the edge of the Altstadt, to the parking garage off Schadowstrasse where he had left his car, he took my hand. We dawdled as we walked through the centre of Düsseldorf, looking in shop windows on the Kö. But as Ralf actually stopped at the brightly lit windows of an estate agent, he dropped my hand and peered in at the luxury flats and opulent townhouses on display.

"A million euros for a flat on the Mediahafen," he whistled, pointing to a photo of a large, glass-fronted show flat, three bedrooms, two and a half bathrooms, a double-height reception room. "I can remember when it was still an industrial wasteland. How times have changed."

Not sure what game we were playing, I decided to try to play along blindly. "Look at this house. One of those beautiful little faux-peasant houses by the river, up by Golzheim. Isn't that where Florian grew up? Price available on request. I suppose if you have to ask, you can't afford."

"It was a lovely neighbourhood," agreed Ralf. "An idyllic place for young people to grow up. That was such a wonderful house; I had many pleasant memories there. It is a shame they sold it, after Tina passed away, but I certainly understand why." For a moment, I stiffened, but he changed the subject very swiftly. "Look, there, fully serviced luxury penthouse on the Kö, view of the Kaufhof and the canal... oh yes, we will have to have that one, definitely."

I stopped, and turned to look, not at the display ads for opulent apartments, but at Ralf, though he continued to peruse the offers nonchalantly, chuckling over an enormous Rhine houseboat that caught his fancy. I had thought we were just playing a game, but the presumption of that 'we' popped me straight out of my willing suspension of disbelief.

"Are you thinking of moving?" I asked, slowly and cautiously.

He stood up straight, though he still did not turn to look me in the eye. "I... don't know," he confessed, with surprising candour. But almost immediately, he spotted another house, a tall, brick medieval house on the outskirts of the Altstadt. "I suppose this one would appeal to your romantic side. Aren't you tired of that poky little room on the Berger Allee?"

The question was so loaded I didn't know how to respond to it. What was he asking? Was he asking me if I wanted to live somewhere else? Was he saying that he intended to leave Jutta, and move out? Was he asking me to move in with him, was this an actual request that he was trying, in a roundabout way, to make? I could not think my way through any of those questions, so instead I responded only on the most superficial level. "I _like_ the Berger Allee," I responded a little defensively. "It is convenient."

At this, he finally turned towards me, his eyes searching mine as if for an answer I wouldn't or couldn't give. I looked back at him fearfully. How was I supposed to answer a question without knowing what it meant? But finally, Ralf shrugged and turned away, gesturing for us to walk off down the street. "The house prices in Düsseldorf have become absurd these days. In Krefeld, they are far more sensible, and economic."

My mind reeled, wondering if I was hearing him correctly. Without thinking it through, I blurted out "I don't think I could ever live somewhere as small and as isolated as Krefeld, though."

"I grew up there," replied Ralf, very defensively.

"I know you did," I replied, softening a little, as I worried I had offended him. "And I know you love it, and it's a good place for you. But..." He could not be serious about wanting me to live in Krefeld. Could he? Me, a stranger, a foreigner, walk into a town where everyone knew his wife and his family? My stomach turned at the idea. In Düsseldorf, at least there was the illusion of a fairly large city's anonymity.

"Of course a cosmopolitan woman like yourself, who grew up in London and New York and Cape Town, you must find our ways very parochial." He was mocking me now, but I could hear from the tone in his voice that he was hurt. "Never mind, here is the parking garage. I will drop you at the Berger Allee."

He did not mention our living arrangements again. Over the next week, the relationship between us returned to... well, if not normal, at least some kind of equilibrium. He agreed to the edits Florian had suggested I make, simply accepting that the revisions came from closer scrutiny of his diaries. Ralf, it seemed, had grown to trust me, at least with regards to writing.

I did not ask him about his wife, or about his family. He told me, once, in a slightly too offhand comment, that he had been sleeping in the office at home, and I chose to believe him. I had to choose to believe him, under those circumstances, otherwise it was have driven me mad. But when we were together, it was good. He treated me well, and the sex energised me, reassured me, made me feel grounded again in my body. I began to think that it might be possible to go on like this forever. We were making good progress on the edit, and I was starting to think that by late spring, we could submit a draft to his publisher. I, much like Jutta, just chose not to think about what would happen _after_.


	21. My Enemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Brexit starts to unfold, the Klingklang Gang try to make plans to keep Katrin T in Germany. And just as she starts to relax, Katrin's namesake starts up with some rather disturbing behaviour.

Ralfs family, for the most part, remained quiet. Jutta, it seemed, had decided to either tolerate or completely ignore my existence. Ralf did not again mention their arrangements to me. Katrin, though... well, I wasn't so sure. There were a couple of weird incidents over the next few weeks, but I did my best to ignore them.

First, someone started leaving comments on Vom Himmel Hoch. 'it's so weird reading this' said the anonymous commenter. 'but it's really good. fucked-up, but good. the kunstakademie is on the other side of the altstadt from ur flat but i guess u know that now. tschüss.'

I know; I know. Honestly, it could have been anyone familiar with Düsseldorf's geography. But how many other people knew that I was living in one of the locations repeatedly mentioned in the story? I took a screen grab, then deleted the comment, and continued to ignore her.

A week later, there was a weird spambot glitch on Tumblr, where the Kraftwerk tag suddenly got flooded with GIFs of weird hardcore Japanese anime porn. I did my best to block and report all of the users, but as I was doing so, a message dropped into my inbox, from an unrecognised Gmail account.

'hi it's me. i'm going to warn you that you should probably stay out of the kraftwerk tags for a day or two. they're currently filled as of 7pm CET with extremely NSFW and unrelated stuff along with a bunch of other fandom tags i check. i actually know whose side blogs they are, they've done it before, and i asked them to tone it the fuck down but they haven't so i give up. anyway. delete this after reading, i was never here, there or anywhere. *disappears in a cloud of smoke*'

I stared at the email for exactly 15 seconds, thinking how odd it was that this mysterious anonymous writer seemed to know exactly what time the tag-bombing had started. I shrugged and said out loud, "Yes, I'm almost certain that I, too, know whose sideblogs they are, you attention-seeking little brat, but I'm not playing this game" then moved the message over into saved mail, making a note of the second account to block it, too.

The attempts at contact slowed, and finally seemed to stop. After two weeks without a word from Katrin, I started to venture back onto the internet again, tentatively posting to Twitter, though I left Tumblr alone. It was too tempting to sit and chat with Graciella, as she was often sitting up late, painting in the small hours of the night as I was getting up and checking the internet. Graciella had persuaded Felda to join Twitter, and soon both of us followed each other, too. Felda kept pestering me to join Facebook, as she said the Klingklang Widows had their own private group, and mentioned with a wink emoticon that ju-know-whooter was not a member, but I did not want to get sucked into Facebook.

Not that I really had time to, as Ralf and I were speeding through the editing process. Already, we were two thirds of the way through editing the whole book, by the last week of March.

 

The end of March was tense. Work was progressing on the edits at a good pace, but the political tensions in Europe, and around the world, seemed to have kicked up a gear. The German newspapers were dominated by the upcoming elections, in Germany and France, but every now and then, sabre-rattling first on one side, from the Horror-Clown in the States, then from the other in Russia and the Ukraine, would explode onto the front pages.

With all that going on, Brexit negotiations barely made the newspapers. I followed along on Twitter and on the Guardian's website, but the situation just seemed worse and worse. No one in the British government seemed aware even of the scale of what they were about to do, let alone the complexity.

On the morning the Prime Minister triggered Article 50, that finally, made front-page news in Germany. I was sitting in the kitchen of Klingklang, waiting for Müller or Ralf to turn up, just endlessly hitting refresh on the Guardian's Brexit liveblog on my phone, when I heard footsteps behind me. There was a hand on my shoulder, then someone gently placed a newspaper in front of me, with a headline declaring that Article 50 had been triggered. Britain was leaving the EU.

"I am zo, zo zorry," said a halting voice in a thick accent, and I looked up to see Fritz, looking down at me, very concerned.

I opened my mouth to say thank you, but Robbo and Rudi clattered into the kitchen, squabbling between themselves. >>The British have always been completely fucking stupid<< insisted Rudi. >>I tell you, since the days of the Raj, they are a complete load of arrogant, incompetent...<<

But Robbo caught sight of me, and hissed >>Sssshhh. Cool it.<<

Rudi caught sight of me and shut his mouth, with a brief "Es tut mir leid," followed by >>I don't actually think of you as British?<< that I couldn't work out if was supposed to be ironic or not. In an odd way, I felt like I should be the one to apologise to Rudi, or even tell him I agreed about the British Empire.

>>I didn't think they'd ever actually do it<< said Fritz, picking up the newspaper again.

Falk appeared, loping through from the side door into the main rehearsal space, then noticed the newspaper and read the headline over the top of Fritz's head. >>Oh Christ<< he sighed, scratching at stubble on the back of his head, then he brightened. >>Look<< he insisted, turning to me. >>It's not hopeless. We can do something.<<

>>Like what? Invade and get the drugs they've been smoking out of their water supply?<< laughed Robbo.

>>No, I meant for our Katrin<< pointed out Falk, with an affectionate gesture towards me. My heart melted a little as four geeky German heads all swivelled towards me, looking really rather worried for me. 

>>You won't have to go back, will you?<< asked Robbo, looking suddenly rather alarmed.

>>Well, if you do, at least leave me the kettle<< added Rudi, who had started going through my PG Tips at quite a pace.

>>No, she can't go back. She's one of us now.<< insisted Fritz. >>Der Chef will arrange her a visa. We can talk to Günter and Gudrun, make sure it's all copacetic.<<

>>Look, if you really need to, you can get married. .<< Falk started to offer, in a very paternal tone. >>Like Müller and Graciella, yes? We can find you a husband - Felda would help. She knows my friends. And she knows what you find attractive in a man, yes?<< All of them were very sweet, the way they genuinely seemed concerned that I would have to leave the organisation, but Falk was racing out ahead, detailing his plans to get me a visa. >>I definitely have friends who would marry you, and then you can apply for citizenship. It's not too difficult. I have been helping Müller with their forms.<<

I realised with a start, that even within the private enclave of Klingklang, there were echelons within echelons. There seemed to be a definite division between the full-timers - Müller, Gudrun, Günter - who had sussed the way things lay between Ralf and I, and those further out, who remained oblivious. Or was it just Falk, with his new-boy innocence?

>>What about Serge? He's single, isn't he. And he was complaining about not having a girlfriend again last week - ever since we got back from tour, he has been complaining. I'm sure Serge would marry you. He is desperate for a nice woman<< said Robbo, and I found myself simultaneously relieved that he didn't seem to know either, and yet gob-smacked at the idea that I would have anything to do with a wastrel like Serge. >>Then we would all help you pass the test, wouldn't we, lads?<<

>>Oh yes<< piped up Rudi. >>My auntie took it a few years ago. It's not so hard. I can get the study guide and the practice test for you. We will make a German of you yet.<<

>>That's very kind<< I laughed, with both relief and embarrassment. >>But I'm not marrying anyone.<<

Fritz alone hung back, a puzzled and slightly suspicious expression on his face, looking back and forth between me, and his colleagues, as if wondering how much he should say. At that moment, I realised that Fritz definitely knew. >>I believe there are... obstacles to marriage?<< he started to say, very quietly.

But of course, it was at that moment, as his colleagues were still discussing friends to marry me off to, and Fritz was trying to warn them off, that Ralf appeared at the door. >>Hallo, hallo, what's all this, then? Who is getting married?<<

>>I'm not marrying anyone!<< I almost shouted.

>>The British have just triggered Article 50<< explained Fritz. 

>>We have been trying to think of a way to keep Katrin in Germany<< added Falk. >>She will have to marry for the visa.<<

>>It's quite simple. We will get her a _work_ visa << Ralf insisted, then looked around imperiously, hands in the back pockets of his trousers. >>Now don't you lot have jobs to go to?<< 

The crowd dispersed, back into the studios and workshops from which they had come. But their fuss, despite its absurd conclusions, had made me feel oddly good, made me feel like the boys actually considered me a fully-functioning and indispensable part of Klingklang, rather than just some appendage of Ralf's. But Ralf still seemed put out by something.

>>You're not jealous, are you?<< I asked, laughing nervously, trying to make a joke of it.

>>Why would I be jealous of Falk's no-good friends?<<

>>I don't want to marry anyone. You know that, right?<<

Ralf turned towards me, his face dark. >>I am well aware of this fact, thank you, _yes_. <<

His tone genuinely shocked me, so I tried to back-peddle, to change the subject quickly. >>I'm sorry. Would you like me to make you a cup of coffee?<< 

>>I do not want a cup of coffee<< said Ralf slightly churlishly. >>I want you upstairs and naked on my sofa in thirty seconds.<< 

I did as I was told, but something still chaffed me about his tone, even after sex had washed the anxiety away. We lay together afterwards, spooning on the sofa, as I tried to think about the layout of the offices below. The stairs were at the back of the building, which meant that the catwalk to Ralf's office climbed back towards the front. At the front of the studio downstairs were the business office, where Gudrun worked, and the distribution centre where Günter had his desk. Further back, on the right side, directly below our sofa, was the synth workshop / museum where Müller usually worked. I knew Fritz and Müller were tight; he often went to her to desk to consult with her. But as I tried to think where the archive with Falk's graphics workstation was located, to work out why he had not heard us, I felt Ralf move behind me.

"You are distracted. What is it?" he whispered into my ear 

"What makes you think I am distracted?" I blurted out, returning to the office, to Ralf's arms wrapped around me.

"I have had my finger in your belly button for two and a half minutes and you have not slapped my hand away. You never let me touch you like this." 

"Get off," I snapped, pushing his hand away. I was extremely sensitive about my belly button, and never allowed anyone to touch it.

Ralf laughed, and removed the offending hand, moving it up to my neck, to part the messy locks at the nape of my neck, so that he could kiss me there. "Your hair is getting too long," he told me, with the hint of an edge to his voice. "I cannot find that little sexy spot to kiss. You must get it cut." 

I opened my mouth to apologise, and explain that Sascha, Müller's and my hairdresser, had been away, but then stopped myself. A few months earlier, it had pleased me that Ralf genuinely liked my short hair. I had felt that he truly appreciated _me_ , rather than expecting me to fit into some pre-ordained image of beauty. But his comment abruptly irked me, though I could not adequately explain why.

The next morning, I rang and booked an appointment with Sascha's colleague, Lindi, who normally did tints and colouring, but could provide me with a trim. Lindi buzzed away the offending curls at the back of my neck, then ran her fingers through the hair on top.

>>Your colour is so lovely<< she told me. >>Is it natural? You're Irish, aren't you, from the accent?<< 

>>British<< I laughed. >>It's usually the sun that turns it that nice gingery colour, but in the winter I sometimes help it out by putting some bleach from a box on for ten minutes.<<

>>Ach, but box-bleach is so bad for your hair! Would you let me do some henna on you? It's all natural - organic henna from Anatolia - but it would brighten up your ginger beautifully.<< 

>>Go for it<< I told her. >>If you're the one who does Müller's colour, well, she always looks great, so I trust you.<<

My hair came out _amazing_ , all fiery curls in flame-like shades of orange and red and burnt sienna, blending in with the natural chestnut of my own hair. It looked so good, blazing all auburn round my face, that Lindi took half a dozen photos, and I posted the results to Twitter. And Ralf loved it. He kept touching it and exclaiming, pretending that it had burned his hand, before giggling breathily to himself, then rubbing his fingers up against the buzzed bit at the nape of my neck. 

>>I love how it feels<< he insisted. >>Never let it grow so long again. The exposed nape of a woman's neck is so, _so_ erotic. I love to see it on you. << And he went on, once we got upstairs to the privacy of his office, to prove his point.

 

\----------

 

The first week of April, I received a very strange invitation from Müller, sidling up to me on a coffee break at Klingklang with a glance upstairs to make sure that Ralf was not in yet. 

>>Are you busy this Friday?>>

>>I... don't know. You know my time isn't really my own<< I said, a little tetchily. Although I still kept in close contact with Graciella every day on social media, relations with Müller had become oddly strained, since she had found out about Ralf and me. 

>>Well, you should make time. Because I've been invited to a very special birthday party, and I've been ordered... well, I've been asked quite specifically if I could possibly bring you.<<

>>Who?<< I shrugged, thinking it was maybe Zara or Sascha, or one of the girls from her local, wondering why they hadn't just asked me directly. 

Again, Müller glanced twitchily towards the door. >>Listen. It's Big Flo's seventieth on Friday. The Schneiders deliberately extended an invite to you. If Hütler won't let you fraternise with the enemy, then that's your business. But I have delivered the invitation, OK?<<

That stopped me in my tracks. >>Florian?<< I gasped, and she nodded. >>Alright, I'll come. I'll tell Ralf I'm out with the girls.<< I paused as Müller nodded. >>You shouldn't call him Hütler, though. That's not nice.<<

>>We all do<< giggled Müller. >>Even Big Flo.<<

Somehow, I arranged it, without arousing Ralf's suspicion. I told him I was going to a party at the lesbian bar with Müller, so it wasn't really appropriate for him to come. He conceded grudgingly, then confessed that since his daughter had already made plans to be scarce for the evening, his wife wanted him to come and do something with the Benevolent Ladies of Krefeld. There was the edge of a comment that Krefeld was good enough for him, but I ignored it, and said that I would see him on Monday.

But he immediately called me back. "Oh, no, no no. You get Monday off for your birthday." I stared at him blankly, as I had thought that he had forgotten it. "You should take Tuesday off, as well. Just email Gudrun and tell her."

"Why? And why do I have to tell her, if you want me?" 

Ralf coughed gently and shifted his weight from foot to foot. "Oh, you ruin the surprise. I am taking you away, for your birthday. We will leave on Sunday afternoon. I will pick you up at your place around two o'clock."

"Where are we going?" I demanded, surprised, and yet with a mixture of both pleasure and guilt. 

"No, I am not ruining the whole surprise. You will need your passport, though, so be sure to bring it."

"OK..." I peered at him curiously as he beamed back at me, bursting with his secret. So that was why he had given up Friday evening without a fight. He was spending it with his wife, in some kind of exchange for disappearing from his family over my birthday. I had no idea how the pair of them organised it, and I didn't really want to know. My conscience should have bothered me more than it did but when I was with Ralf, it was, as he had described, like I was C and he was G; we just _went_ together.

On Friday evening, I went home to change for the party, putting on a shirt and tie in Florian's honour, then met Müller at Carlsplatz, to cycle over to the Schneider townhouse together. I was actually looking forward to seeing him again, and I was pleased to have been so specifically invited. But as we grew near, turning down the nearest avenue, I had the sudden overwhelming sensation that something was wrong. 

>>Slow down<< I said, and gestured for Müller to pull over to the side of the road.

>>What is it?<< she asked. 

I don't know what made me move to the side of a parked car, but I heard the van before I saw it. An old, beaten-up VW, with punk bands' logos plastered all over the back, rolled down the avenue and turned off at the side-street where the Schneiders' townhouse was. 

>>Oh Christ, no...<< I groaned, then to Müller's puzzled expression, tried to explain, even as my heart was pounding in my throat. >>I think I know that car.<<

I pedalled to the end of the side-street, and stopped, peering round the side of a large office block. Sure enough, the punk-mobile pulled up outside Florian's house and parked. Although I couldn't see Katrin climb out, as the passenger side was facing away from me, the long, skinny creature that extracted himself from the drivers' seat was definitely Wolfie. 

Müller was about to cycle round the corner, but I waved to her to hang back. >>What is it? What is the big spy performance about?<<

I waited just long enough to see Wolfie meet his date at the front of the house. Her back was towards me, but I realised with a shock that Katrin had actually dyed her hair bright ginger, as I knew from that 80s style black leather jacket, its sleeves rolled up to show a red lining, that it was definitely her. >>Shit<< I swore, feeling my heart pounding in my throat, as I realised what was happening. >>Müller, I'm really sorry, but I can't go to that party.<<

>>Oh, come on. We're practically there. Why not?<< Müller demanded. 

>>There is someone there, that absolutely cannot see me.<< I was trying to stay calm, but I could feel the panic starting to rise in my stomach.

>>Who? You haven't even lived in Düsseldorf long enough to make any enemies.<< 

I took a deep breath, then swallowed nervously. >>Katrin Hütter - Ralf's daughter - has just gone in.<<

Müller just looked puzzled. >>Didn't you tell me that she was the person who introduced you to Flo in the first place?<< 

>>Things have... changed since then. Since she found out about her dad and me... well, things have got more than a little awkward.<< Well, that was an understatement.

>>So she knows? So what, it seems everyone knows now. Flo is expecting you. He'll be offended if you don't turn up.<<

I closed my eyes, and pressed the palms of my hands into my eyeballs, trying to think how to explain this. >>Müller, please. Can you just trust me on this one? I cannot be around that child. Please can you relay my apologies to Florian - quietly, preferably without that girl overhearing - but I cannot go in there while she's there.<< 

Müller looked at me like I was insane, and at that moment, anger boiled in the pit of my stomach, as well as fear. The friendship with the Schneiders was one I had been nervously looking forward to cultivating, for both personal and professional reasons. I liked Florian, and I enjoyed the company of his family, on a home-comfort-type level. He reminded me so much of my Dad, in the best and most comfortable of ways. And Sandhya and Lisa had been so friendly to me. I wanted to get to know them better. And yes, obviously I desperately wanted to win Florian's trust, so that he might play me some of his new music.

But there was no way I could go in there, and face Katrin. I had no idea what that spoiled little girl was capable of. I simply couldn't risk it. 

>>I'm sorry, Müller, I just can't. Please go without me.<<

Müller looked at me closely, without saying a word, for a very long minute. Finally she shrugged and climbed back on her bike. >>Your loss<< she snorted, shooting me a slightly wounded look before cycling away. 

But there was no way I could adequately explain how creepy Katrin had started to make me feel. If I had gone in that house, there would have been some kind of a scene, I just knew it, and I wanted to risk that even less than I wanted to risk offending the Schneiders by not turning up.

But at the same time, I felt completely furious as I got back on my bike and cycled West towards the Rhine. Why was it that I was the one having to give up my social life, so as not to run into that brat? It just didn't seem fair. Several times, I nearly turned my bike around and headed back. I would just go and look, see if the van was still there. No, I would just go in and say hello to Florian, but avoid that brat. And yet I couldn't bring myself to do it. I ended up cycling all the way to the Rhine Promenade, and sitting nursing an altbier as I watched the party boats go up and down the river. 

Sitting there, I took out my phone and stared at it. Something kept tugging at me, but I wasn't quite sure what it was until I found myself opening the Tumblr app. Honestly, I had barely looked at it since the whole incident with Katrin, as I mostly used Twitter to keep in touch with Graciella and now Felda. And yet, as if reminded by that near-miss up on Berliner Allee, I found myself clicking through to Katrin's blog.

I can't fully explain my motives; they were complicated and tangled. Partly, it was morbid curiosity that had been stirred simply by seeing her. Partly it was a sense of safety - that if she was at that party, she could not simultaneously also be online, staring back at me. And partly, I hate to confess, but it was an odd mixture of concern and guilt and just wondering if she was, you know... OK. 

The first thing that greeted me was a huge selfie, clearly taken just before leaving for the party, the shocking orange colour of her hair really setting off the deep blue of her doll-like eyes. >>Close-up: READY FOR THE PARTY!<< it declared, then in the tags, it added >>My Enemy does not know what they are missing!<<

I rolled my eyes at the tag. These stupid teenage games of Katrin's; she was always starting some beef or another with girls at her school or in the various punk fandoms. It was clear she hadn't changed one bit. 

I tabbed down, and there was a longer body shot, displaying the whole outfit, the vintage leather jacket, the thigh-bearing minidress, and of course the ripped stockings and combat boots of a teenage punkette. >>I do redhead better than them don't you think?<< declared that post, and I had to admit that the bright orange of her hair quite suited her pale complexion.

But then something caught my eye. Across the black expanse of her jacket was a diagonal dark green slash. For a moment, I thought it was paint, but as my eye followed it down, I realised it was attached to a bag that she had draped diagonally across her shoulders, the way that I wore mine. I tapped to load the full image, and zoomed in on it. It wasn't just any bag. It was a large, forest green rucksack of the exact kind made by the Hackney Satchel Company, an obscure British brand I knew it was impossible to buy in Germany. I had had to order a replacement strap all the way from England, tweeting them to find out their European distribution, only to be told to contact the shop in Dalston if I wanted one. 

I felt a chill, and glanced down at my own bag, lying by my feet, the exact double of Katrin's new rucksack. Taking a sip of beer to fortify my nerves, I took a deep breath and kept scrolling. A photoset of Joy Division. Some gifs of the new Raf Simons fashion collection, full of sharp-featured hipster boys swaggering down a runway wearing anoraks emblazoned with the cover art of famous punk records. That was tagged with >>i asked mama if i could get one of these for my birthday<< and >>she said maybe?<< So she was back to 'Mama' not 'That Swine. That seemed like a positive sign.

The next post confused me. There it was again, this reference to 'My Enemy'. >>I saw that shit film that My Enemy was talking about. God they have such terrible taste!<< This time the grammar was tangled. Meine Feindin took the singular verb - sprach - yet 'they have' was 'sie haben,' the plural. I would have expected 'sie habt' since the Feindin - the Enemy - was clearly feminine. Unless it was a German attempt at a gender-neutral pronoun? I was still puzzling over it when I saw the tag - Ankunft. I felt a little catch in my breath. Ankunft meant Arrival in German. That was the name of the film I had seen with Ralf, though in Germany it was playing with the English title. That seemed... an odd coincidence. Had Ralf mentioned it to his family? Nah, it was so unlikely. I was just being paranoid. 

But let me just check, I thought. I switched pages, and went back to Twitter, looking back through the past few days, mostly filled with selfies of Lindi's fantastic new dye-job. And there it was. I had been talking to Felda about graphic design and user interfaces for the internet that did not rely on language, for non-native speakers. We had been chatting in German, so I had mentioned the film - calling it _Ankunft_ \- and its strange hieroglyphic circular alien language. Felda said she had really enjoyed the film when she and Falk had seen it, and we had chatted about it for quite a bit.

Feeling really, really weird, I switched back to Katrin's Tumblr, scrolling back through time. There was an Instagram-filtered photo of a heavily made-up emo musician giving a thumbs up, standing by a chunk of Berlin concrete on which someone had sprayed the word "DURCHAUS!" That had the tag >>karl k ist mein spirit-animal<< and a sprinkling of emoji hearts. 

I smiled, and thought about how cute her fangirling was, but the next post stopped me dead.

>>I have been invited to Uncle Flo's 70th birthday party! the last time I saw Uncle Flo I was with My Enemy. and all the thanks I got for that introduction! if they are at the party, I will show them.<< 

My breath caught in my throat, as the realisation dawned. When she talked about 'My Enemy', did she mean me? That was... that was beyond odd. That was creepy as hell. As I tabbed back through her blog, it became more and more obvious that 'My Enemy' was meant to be me, that she was shit-talking me at every opportunity, and what's more, she was still pouring through my social media on a daily basis, looking for evidence that I was somehow still talking or even thinking about her.

And at that, I closed the tab, feeling both sick and guilty. Because, to tell the truth, wasn't that just what I was doing? Pouring through her social media, looking for... something? What was I even looking for? 

I put my phone away swiftly. No good could come of this. I told myself it had only been once, that I had looked and just... just to make sure she was OK, after the shock of seeing her at the party. Oh god, the party, yes, it had hurt to turn around and walk away, but it had been the right decision not to go. I shivered at the idea of running into this delusional child who had somehow proclaimed me her Enemy. Her Enemy? At what? What was this weird, one-sided war she seemed to have declared on me? I wanted nothing to do with it. I wanted to throw my phone in the Rhine, to wash away the awful guilt and unclean sensation of having looked at that blog. And yet, at that moment, as I stood up, and put my bag round my shoulder to go, I resolved to never, ever look at her blog again, as long as I lived. Let her continue in her delusions. I wanted nothing to do with it.


	22. Completion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ralf sweeps Katrin off on a special birthday trip, where Katrin feels their relationship restored to a better sense of balance. Invigorated by their romance, they finally finish writing the book.

Ralf emailed me on Saturday morning to remind me to pack an overnight bag, and be downstairs waiting on Bäckerstrasse at two o'clock on Sunday afternoon. So of course, I was outside, sipping at a coffee at quarter to, and my heart leapt as I saw that charcoal grey Mercedes crawl along the street to park beside me.

"Happy birthday," he said, as he rolled down the window and smirked at me. 

"It's not until tomorrow" I told him as I finished my drink, left some money for the waitress and slipped into the other side of the car. Kissing him discreetly on the cheek, I wished I could be more affectionate, but I didn't dare, somewhere so public. "Are you ready to go?" he asked, as I heaved my small bag into the back seat.

"Where are we going?"

"Oh, it is a surprise," he told me with a mysterious smile, and a twinkle to his eye that indicated he wished me to guess. He was in one of his jolly, jovial moods, smiley and filled with the kind of good spirits and mischievous humour that reminded me why I loved him in the first place. Teasing one another, and flipping jokes back and forth, he kept dropping more and more inscrutable hints, while I made more and more unreasonable suggestions based on his clues.

“A city of spires” he intoned, as I pestered him.

“Dreaming spires? Is it Oxford?”

“No, these spires are wide awake, and made of dragons.”

“Dragons. Where do they still have dragons? Komodo Dragons? Fiji? Thailand? Where are you taking me.”

“No, no. Those are dragons of a hot country. We are going to a very cold country.”

“Very cold. Hmmm. The Himalayas?” I suggested. “Are we popping off to Tibet, for a dragon and a coffee?” 

“They do not serve coffee in Tibet, they serve tea – strong tea with yak butter! You would not like it, it is nothing like Englischtee. But where we are going, there is coffee. Very good coffee. To keep the cold dragons awake.”

It was a fun game that we both enjoyed, slipping into the easy badinage that had brought us together in the first place. 

When we reached the airport, finally the mystery was solved, as we joined a boarding queue for a a plane to Copenhagen - though, honestly, I think if he had had his way, and the announcements had not spoiled the surprise, he would have teasingly kept the destination a secret until we landed. It was a short flight, only a hop and a skip, but we held hands for the whole flight. It was nice; I had come to love travelling with Ralf. Neither of us liked to fly, but together it was somehow bearable, clinging onto one another for support. 

A sleek Metro train greeted us at the other end, on a platform straight outside the arrivals lounge, and whisked us away, through long, sandy suburbs into the heart of a medieval city, all full of half-timbered buildings jumbled together on irregular streets. Ralf stopped in a cafe and obtained a key, then lead me through a small dark gate to a central courtyard like something out of a fairy tale. We climbed stairs - dozens of higgledy-piggledy stairs, lurching off in drunken directions - until we reached a garret with sloping roofs and uneven floors, none of which seemed to quite align with one another. Still holding hands, we looked around in wonder, both charmed by the romantic location, and slightly intoxicated by the illicit thrill of being together. Without even bothering to unpack, we made love in a wooden bed tucked up under the steep-sloped eaves, then fell asleep, exhausted from the journey.

I woke to the smell of cinnamon. Ralf had already been down to the market, and bought pastries for breakfast. They were still warm from the oven, and he had put on a pot of coffee. 

"Am I allowed to say Happy Birthday now it's morning?" he asked, greeting me with a kiss.

"You can do a lot more than say it," I laughed, pulling him down into the bed. 

Although I had thought that we might lie in bed all morning, luxuriating in the feeling of being able to sleep in together, wrapped up in the same blankets, Ralf was keen to get up and get going. He had hired two cycles, which awaited us downstairs in the courtyard, and he was as excited as a little boy in his eagerness to try them out. This was the Ralf I loved best, eager, playful and up for adventure. We mounted and threw ourselves into exploring our Scandinavian paradise.

Freedom. Happiness. Patches of very bright sun, slanted by the Northern latitude until it was almost gold, interspersed with fierce squalls that blew in out of nowhere and disappeared almost as quickly. But the rain was clean, and the air was so fresh I filled my lungs deeply. 

The Sound. That huge expanse of very deep blue water that bisected the city, bringing with it the smell of the sea. We went island-hopping on our bicycles, across elegantly engineered wooden or metal bridges that swung up, or back, or to the side to let canal boats through. Seabirds, enormous gulls with wingspans easily the size of a bicycle's frame, seemed to swoop in and out of thin air, squabbling with strange crows that were the wrong colour, sooty heads but muted bodies, as if they were all walking about in very stiff grey waistcoats.

We ate lunch - vegan street food - in a huge converted warehouse, out of the wind, where dozens of vans had congregated for the winter. Then the pair of us huddled inside the opening of a huge brick fireplace, trying to dry off from the last squall, stuffing our faces with homemade chocolates between stolen kisses, before heading back out into that beautiful, strong weather. 

Cycling through the southern half of the city, we reached Christiania, the strange anarchist hippie commune that had grown up along the old ramparts, the defences of the medieval city. Ralf stopped at the central meeting space and bought a book on autonomous communities and self-government, its paragraphs carefully repeated in Danish, then English and German. He read out portions as we sat in an open-air cafe, and we argued about them passionately, pushing our knees together tightly as we urgently talked politics and culture. It was good to thrash these things out through talking, sharpening our thoughts on one another, and I realised that Ralf was enjoying the conversation as much as I was, from the animated light flashing in his eyes. Florian had been wrong; I gave as good as I got, with Ralf. If anything, the disagreements sharpened our passion for one another. But Düsseldorf and Florian’s ominous warnings seemed very far away, and we were so happy, wrapped up in one another.

Although they were supposed to be the main attraction of the autonomous zone, we avoided the drug dealers down in the market, and made our way slowly along the winding paths up through the nature reserve, marvelling at the odd dwellings that seem to have grown organically, like crystals, or barnacles, up on stilts or cantilevered out over the moats. And so we started to discuss architecture, just as passionately as we had discussed politics, comparing and contrasting the slanted, warped, old-fashioned wooden houses with the sleek new Danish designs of waterfront offices as we cycled back along the Sound into the city centre. 

We watched the sunset over the city, eating dinner outside one of the colourful restaurants that lined Nyhavn. I couldn't get over the colours, and the rows and rows of little windows punctuating the tall, narrow buildings. And the spires! We navigated by the various spires, though we did not have time to stay and investigate to what churches, what palaces, what castles they belonged. But Ralf stopped his bike and pulled away from the traffic, just after crossing a huge bridge connecting what seemed like three different islands, then pointed straight up in the air.

“Your wakeful spire made of cold dragons, my love,” he laughed. I followed his finger with my eyes, and saw that he was pointing to a huge bronze spire made from the intertwined tails of four enormous dragon sculptures, baring their teeth at the four directions. I had thought he was being poetic and fanciful, but it was exactly as he had described. 

We cycled home in the dark, up winding, cobbled streets, to that little sloping apartment under the skylights. We were anonymous in Copenhagen; we could hold hands and kiss on the street, just another pair of German tourists. And alone, we could strip naked and cling to one another. It was that, that was always what I remembered, afterwards, rather than the sex. The freedom to be together, skin against skin and holding one another until morning. I didn't ask what excuse he had told his family; he did not volunteer. I was learning not to ask questions, and to understand why Jutta had preferred to make herself blind.

The next morning, I felt disarranged by our brief time in Copenhagen. My head was clear, as if the wind had blown all my old thoughts out, though my hair was a mess. I felt full, stuffed to bursting, both with the endless delicious food from those markets, but also stuffed full of Ralf, of Ralf's sperm, of Ralf's love. Denmark agreed with him, he felt young and vigorous, and wanted to take me again and again. If, in the Eifel Wald, I had pestered him for sex, as if to prove something, now he seemed to be the one that wanted to prove he could fill me, again and again. 

Our last morning before our flight home, we felt drawn, again, to Christiania. It was such a wonderful combination of completely peaceful, and yet also rowdy and anarchic. Ralf and I sat by the water, eating food we'd brought from a street market, staring at the oddly constructed houses across the moat.

"This is one of the most beautiful places I've ever visited," I sighed, leaning my head against his shoulder as we sat in a little carved-out bench in the middle of the wooden bridge over the moat. 

"It is. It's so civil, isn't it?" He stopped, and we both watched, laughing a little bit, as a man with a box-bike cycled his two children across the bridge. "I want one of those so much. I must find out if they will ship them, to Germany."

"I want one of the houses," I fantasised. "One of those wonderful, organic hippie-houses up on stilts, all pyramidal roofs, and strangely shaped windows, with solar panels for electricity, and brightly coloured murals on the walls." 

"What about those ones?" suggested Ralf, pointing out across the water, to a pair of sinuously curved wooden buildings, their roofs all grown over with turf, that faced each other across a small dip. "One for you, one for me."

"As if you would leave Germany, and move to Copenhagen," I laughed. 

"I don't know. It might be nice to just leave my responsibilities behind, move to a hippie commune in Denmark, concentrate on autonomous living, on leaving as small a footprint as possible. To just... disappear, into the woods. It has its appeal."

I paused, and twisted around to look into his face, expecting a smile, to show he was joking, but his face was completely serious, perhaps even slightly wistful. "And leave Kraftwerk? I can't imagine you doing it." 

The mood changed, as I realised we had both become a great deal more serious, than the previous easy joking. "I don't know. It is a fantasy of mine, but whether it is even possible... I don't know. I could see you doing it, very easily. You have that kind of personality, brave, bold, that you just pick up and change country, in search of a dream. I can see it in your eyes, you would pack up and move to Christiania tomorrow and live in a hippie shack."

I paused to think about that. "Well. If someone was offering me an opportunity, a contract or a job or something... I wouldn't just take a leap into the blue. But if there were a concrete offer..." My voice trailed off, as I realised that Ralf was looking at me very intently.

"Katrin, I want to ask you something. But I don't want you to get angry at me for asking. Promise me that...?"

"Well, I can't promise unless I know what it is."

His voice became so sincere it was almost urgent, abandoning the easy jollity of the previous few days. "If I were to... If I..." A gaggle of giggling Spanish tourists, a very distinctive sweet smoky smell wafting behind them, clattered their way across the bridge, drowning him out, so I shook my head to indicate I hadn't heard him.

"I'm sorry, I didn't hear you. Try again?" I asked.

"What I wanted to know was... if you would consider..." But this time, a pair of backpackers in their early twenties started noisily across the bridge, and Ralf fell silent, waiting for them to pass. I glanced up, and noticed one was wearing a Laibach T-shirt, the other Depeche Mode. Laibach only glanced at Ralf, but Depeche Mode locked eyes with him, and did an actual double take. A stream of Slavic-sounding syllables that probably meant something like 'holy fucking shit, that is the dude from Kraftwerk' escaped his lips, as he and his companion turned back and headed straight for us. 

"Hallo! You are Kraftwerk, yes?" asked Laibach, and started to chant "Wir sind die Roboter... bleep blip-blip bloop?"

"Ralf Hütter," supplied Depeche Mode. "You are Ralf Hütter, yes? You are making concert in Denmark?"

For a moment, Ralf looked panicked, like he almost wanted to deny being himself, but then he shrugged by way of concession. "Ja, I am Ralf. We are not performing. I am on holiday, with... meine Frau." As he gestured towards me, I cringed at the tiny white lie, then noticed that Laibach was getting out his smartphone like he wanted to take a picture. 

"We are fans. Big fans," said Depeche Mode.

Laibach gestured with the camera. "We make picture, yes?"

"No pictures," snapped Ralf, casting a panicked glance towards me. Although it was hardly a secret any more, I still did not want photographic evidence, so I edged gingerly away.

"Please?" said Laibach. "My girlfriend back in St Petersburg, she is big Kraftwerk fan. Without pictures, she think we lie to her."

Depeche Mode started to sing, "For every camera, she gives the best, she can. Big Kraftwerk fans. All of us. St Petersburg _loves_ Kraftwerk."

Ralf smiled apologetically; under any other circumstance, he would have been flattered, would have offered to sign some autographs. He had a real weakness for fans from the former Soviet Union; sometimes he even tried out his terrible high school Russian on them. But I could see him moving away from me, like he was worried about being photographed with me, too. Standing up, and moving over behind them. I caught Ralf's eye, and made a gesture. For a moment, he looked worried, but then he nodded his assent. 

"Let me have your camera. I'll take a picture of the two of you with Ralf," I offered, holding out my hand. At least that way, there was no way that I would end up in the photo.

"Oh my god, thank you, thank you," said Laibach, showing the phone to me, and indicating which of the Cyrillic buttons to press to take a picture, before he and Depeche Mode sat down on the bench, one on either side of Ralf, looking as star-struck and happy as they possibly could. Depeche Mode gave a thumbs up; Laibach flashed devils' horns. I snapped two or three pictures as they mugged, then gestured for them to get up. 

"We have to go now," I said, with a very firm, motherly tone. "Here's your photos, I hope you like them."

"Thank you, thank you," said Depeche Mode, extending his hand for Ralf to shake. "Ralf Hütter. Kraftwerk. Big fans." 

"Danke, Danke, Frau Hütter," said Laibach, who seemed to remember his manners along with some basic German, bending forward solicitously as he took his camera back from me.

"Bitte Schön." I smiled back, but then pulled Ralf up by the elbow, and hurried him off in the opposite direction, even as they continued to call "Thank you, Ralf!" and "Thank you, Frau Hütter!" after us. 

"Christ," I swore, as we got back on dry land and retrieved our bikes, disappearing quickly round the bend as quickly as we could. We waited until we were out of sight, before we both collapsed and then started to giggle. "That really is enough of being called Frau Hütter for one lifetime. No more of that, please."

Ralf looked up at me, and I saw his face suddenly become strangely crestfallen. "Never mind. You handled it well. That was quick thinking. Let's cycle back into town and get some lunch." 

"Do you want to go back to Nyhavn again, or was that too much of a tourist trap?"

"It's beautiful, but the food on Street Market Island was much better. Shall we go there?" 

It wasn't until we were back at the flat, as I packed the bags while he returned the bicycles, that I realised he had never got back to asking that question he had thought was so important in Christiania.

On the plane back to Germany, sitting in the over-pressurised cabin, I had the sudden fear I might be leaking. The skin of my face, chapped by the wind and salt air, seemed to be peeling away. I had the awful thought that I was over-full of all the semen he had pumped into me, and that my skin would burst, and Ralf would start seeping out of me from the cracks. Alarmed, I felt the gusset of my jeans grow wet, and excused myself to the cramped plane toilet, but thankfully, it was only the start of my period, a few days early for a change. 

 

We returned to Düsseldorf, to Klingklang as if nothing had happened. No one even commented on our absence. Ralf went off to talk to the sound engineers, Fritz and Falk squabbled laconically over improvements to the computer graphics rendering workstation, and Müller and I snuck off to the balcony to have a cup of tea, and a catch-up gossip over the endless machinations of the Klingklang crew. 

I was sitting fiddling with my phone as Müller vaped, when I saw I had five new mentions on Twitter. That, in itself was unusual enough for me to take a look. Someone using the screenname "Karl Kotzübel" had gone through and faved several of my tweets, then tweeted:

'super Blog über eine meiner LIbelings-Gruppen, Kraftwerk, von @KateTremaine', with a link to This Band Could Be Your Life.

I laughed aloud. >>Doesn't 'Kotzübel' mean sick, as in...<< I mimed vomiting.

"Si... porque?" said Müller, who was trying to practice her Spanish at every moment.

>>I just got tweeted at by some dude called Karl Kotzübel<< I giggled, clicking through to his account. Whoa. Whoever he was, he had about 60,000 followers.

>>No way! The real Karl Kotzübel?<< Müller moved towards me, taking off her sunglasses to peer down at my phone. She quickly read his twitter bio out loud. >>Bassist. Singer. Rebel. Punk. Opinions expressed are mine, and not representative of Durchaus! or their record label.<<

>>Durchaus?<< I mused. >>Why does that sound familiar?<<

Müller started to mime playing guitar, as she sang in an exaggerated punk whine, but I just stared at her blankly. >>Oh come on, Durchaus! They were huge, about five, ten years ago, before Kotzübel quit. Biggest band from the Berlin post-punk scene in years. Don't tell me you didn't get them over in England?<<

I racked my brains before locating the reference. >>Oh, I know. They're one of those emo-punk bands that Katrin Hütter loves. He certainly still looks like an emo, with that haircut.<<

>>He's got a bit of a solo career now, doing 80s style synth punk, I guess<< shrugged Müller.

As I looked back at my phone, I realised that my mentions were shooting up, from 5, to 10, to 25, to just 99+. When I refreshed the page, it was just overrun with people, mostly young, mascara-smeared girls, liking and retweeting his comment.

>>Why don't you say hello?<< said Müller, leaning over my shoulder.

>>Fuck off<< I said, staring at the tweet. I was flattered that the man had read my blog and mentioned me, but it was a bit of a headfuck. Still, I hit reply, and casually typed >>Thanks, I'm glad you enjoyed it.<<

He responded only a few minutes later. >>You speak German! I thought you were English. It was a very enjoyable piece.<< He used an odd, old fashioned word, vergnüglich, for enjoyable.

>>Well, I live in Düsseldorf now. Yes, I moved to be closer to Kraftwerk.<<

>>D-dorf! We played there last year. Of course we did the tourist trip to Klingklang on Mintropstrasse but there was no Kraftwerk to be seen.<< 

Müller almost burst out laughing at that. >>You should tell him, if he comes back, to give us a call. We'll hook him up.<<

>>Stop it!<< I hissed. >>Wait, why do you want to meet him anyway?<< I clicked down his tweetstream, and looked at some of his selfies. He was, to be fair, really quite a strikingly pretty man, tall and thin and angular, looking oddly androgynous in his heavy mascara and his wild Blixa Bargeld hair. The kind of guy whom, had I been 15, I would really have had a pop star crush on. >>Wow<< I said, and changed my mind a little.

>>Well, if you come back to D-dorf let me know. We can show you the local secrets.<< I tweeted back at him.

When I clicked back to my own twitter, I saw that he had followed me. I shrugged and followed him back.

Müller actually squealed. >>I can't believe Karl Kotzübel followed you!<<

>>I had no idea you were a fan.<<

>>Durchaus! were great. Are you kidding? I'll have to dig out one of their albums to play you.<< Taking the phone from me, she opened Spotify and searched for a track. >>Here, listen to this. It was a huge hit in Germany.<<

I had to admit, I quite liked it. It was sort of spikey, fast-paced post-punk, with washes of synths that very deliberately recalled early 80s Neue Deutsche Weller pop like 99 Luftballons and Der Kommissar. But it was the bassline that drove it along, a taut, strutting, octave-hopping funk that really recalled the driving rhythm of a train, as the singer told a slightly surreal story about a weird journey on the Berlin U-Bahn in a very Robert Smith-like croon over the top.

Over the next week, I got used to this strange, wild-haired young man popping up in my mentions, liking my photos of Düsseldorf and retweeting my more political retweets. I sort-of teased him about Kraftwerk, but never revealed my personal connection. Ralf, to my surprise, seemed amused by the whole thing, when I mentioned it to him. I had a feeling he had started to watch my twitter, though he did not have an account of his own. He was not a fan of Durchaus! but surprisingly, he remembered their big hit, the same one that Müller played for me. 

>>The U-bahn does not stop here, any more. It's only echoes of ghost stations of the Cold War<< he sang jauntily, then explained. >>It is a pop song about Reunification. Of course I like this.<<

Ralf and I were getting along well, to my relief. The ease and pleasure of one another’s company seemed to have returned after our jaunt to Copenhagen. And when we got along well, the speed and ease of our work together matched the intensity and bliss of our lovemaking. The editing process was far, far easier than I had expected. 

I liked to make him read the book out loud to me, to see how well it flowed, and pick out any bits that sounded at all unnatural. And he enjoyed reading aloud, in his soft, sonorous tenor, putting some emotion into it, as if he were reading me a bedtime story. I wrote and I rewrote, sanding away the imperfections, tightening the prose, altering the voice to make it sound more and more distinctively _Ralf_. The longer we worked on it, the more confident he became in his own voice, and the more useful his suggestions and edits were. With each redraft, we seemed to be getting closer and closer to the final result, a prospect that both excited and terrified me.

By the end of April, as all of the trees along the Rhine came into full bloom, the book, at last, was finished. >>You never really finish a book,<< I warned Ralf. >>In the end, you just have to abandon it.<< 

Ralf smiled slyly. >>A little like albums, I suppose.<<

We had been through it over and over, tightening, tweaking, editing and revising, until honestly, I couldn't bear to look at the thing again. But after a weekend’s rest, cycling in the forest with the Radsportgruppe, I sat down and read it, cover to cover, as if I were reading a novel. It took me three days, but after working on the thing in sections and assembling it piecemeal and hacking the thing into chunks while editing it, it was actually an enjoyable experience to just read it from cover to cover. It felt like an actual book. Freed from the anxiety of trying to present a cohesive narrative, I found that the story gripped me, and the voice - my voice, ventriloquising Ralf - was completely engaging. Even though I knew I'd written it, and I could remember hacking every piece into place from interviews and diaries, sitting down and reading it _felt_ like speaking to Ralf for several hours. 

I caught one or two typos that way, barely believing that they had made it through that many edits, then uploaded the whole thing onto Ralf's hard drive. I honestly expected to get the whole thing back, covered in red pen, insisting >>I never said that<< or >>please change this, I sound like a _ninny_ << but instead, I got a very brief email.

'I believe this is finished. Will you come in tomorrow to discuss it?'

I cycled in the next morning, and arrived to find Ralf and Gudrun bent over the large copier / printer in the main office, watching the huge block of sheets gather in the tray.

>>No, no, what are you doing?<< I protested. >>I need to proof read it one more time.<<

>>Well, you can read it as a printed manuscript now<< laughed Ralf, turning to beam at me.

>>But you know that the moment you print it out, we will find seventeen more typos.<<

>>Then you can get the correcting fluid and fix it before we sent it to the publishers<< he teased, gesturing to the small bottle on Gudrun's desk. 

>>Wait, we're not sending it to the publishers like this...<< I sputtered, unwilling to finally let the thing out of my hands.

>>No of course not. They will get an emailed PDF copy<< chuckled Ralf, looking really quite pleased with himself. The printer started to slow, then stopped, revealing a final block was about 500 pages long. He weighed the paper carefully as he took it off the printer in a block, fanning the pages before knocking it against the desk to get the pages to line up. >>There it is<< he said proudly. >>Our life's work.<< I didn't know if the plural pronoun was an error or a joke, but he smiled at me.

>>Hmmm<< said Gudrun, going through her precious stationery supplies. >>Yes, we do have a ring-binder that is just big enough to hold it. If you will let me perforate the precious object, to bind it.<<

>>Yes, but make sure the pages line up evenly. I don't like it when the pages don't line up perfectly<< fussed Ralf, as Gudrun took the stack of paper and expertly manoeuvred it into something resembling a book.

>>Honestly, you'd think I hadn't been doing this for years...<< muttered Gudrun, rolling her eyes at me. >>He is such a fuss, I don’t know how you deal with him.<< I smiled back at her, feeling for the first time since the tour, like Gudrun and I were actually on the same team again.

>>Would you like to read it one more time?<< offered Ralf, with a teasing tone to his voice, as Gudrun sat down at her computer. I took it from him, and started to flip through the pages, marvelling at how different it felt to actually see the words printed on a page, rather than dancing on a computer screen. >>I was joking<< added Ralf quickly. >>It is finished. Please give me the manuscript back.<<

>>No, no, I need to read it one more time...<< I insisted.

>>Give it to me<< said Gudrun, holding out her hand to take it from me, and I surrendered it to her without hesitation. She smiled at me with a slightly victorious air, as she fitted a cover to it. >>Now it is properly finished.<<

>>It looks so good<< I marvelled, touching it reverently. >>Everything you do turns out so professional, Gudrun.<<

>>But of course<< said Gudrun with a self-satisfied little nod. >>There is a reason that I am the manager, and not the wife.<< And I swear, she actually turned to me and winked, though how I was supposed to be complicit in that wink, I had no idea, and I did not dare to ask.


	23. Publish and be Damned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ralf and Katrin take the train to Berlin, to turn in the manuscript of their book to their publishers.

With Gudrun’s help to pry the manuscript out of the hands of two perfectionists, we managed to get an email over to the publisher, with the completed draft. She rang the company and spoke to various functionaries, and booked an appointment to discuss it. A few days later, Ralf and I caught a train to Berlin, to meet with the editors of our book and discuss the finished draft.

I met Ralf at the Düsseldorf Hauptbahnhof, by the Spargel stand that made me laugh so much, for it was coming into high Spargelzeit. I arrived first, as I always did, to Ralf's continued perplexity. 

>>My tram arrived ten minutes before the allotted meeting time<< he fussed. >>How are you here before me?<<

>>I walked over<< I shrugged. >>I always leave an extra fifteen minutes, in case I get caught in traffic. Do you have the tickets?<<

>>I have the tickets. Gudrun printed them for me yesterday.<<

>>You know, if you just got a smartphone, you could send the tickets straight to your phone, and not bother printing at all<< I told him, but he rolled his eyes as we headed for out platform - Gleich 17, as it fortuitously turned out. >>Well, look where we are<< I teased.

>>You will never stop being pleased about that, will you<< he laughed, but amiably deigned to recreate the famous photo for me. I got out my phone and snapped a photo of Ralf standing under the clock, by the board for Track 17, his hands folded carefully across a black bomber jacket that had once been mine, wearing a smile I had come to think of as typical.

>>You would kill me if I posted this to the Internet, wouldn't you<< I sighed.

He made a face, and moved away quickly. >>I will take a photo of you under the clock, and you may post that to the internet<< he offered. We switched places, and he snapped the photo.

With an impish grin, I took back my phone, and uploaded the photo to twitter, tagging it 'Wir laufen 'rein nach Berlin Haus, treffen @KarlKotzubel auf Durchaus!' simply because he was the only person I knew in Berlin.

The train arrived, and we hurried onto it, Ralf carefully stowing our luggage before making our way forward to the first class seats he had booked. I asked if he wanted the window, but no, he always let me have it, preferring the mobility of being able to walk about the train at will. 

When I checked my phone again, I burst out laughing. A reply had come back after about half an hour. "Sehr schön!" Karl commented. "Aber ich mag Computerwelt lieber." And attached to the tweet was a photo of himself, in black shirt and red tie, his hair slicked back in a side part, wearing a pair of nerd glasses remarkably similar to the ones that Ralf occasionally used for reading, staring at his computer with an intense expression.

I laughed so hard that Ralf turned to me and extended his hand to take my phone. "What is it?" he asked.

"Never mind, it's just a joke," I said, trying to contain my laughter. It was not something I expected Ralf to understand, in fact, I had a suspicion that he might be slightly hurt by it.

"Well, it sounds like a very funny one." He reached for the phone again, but I held it out of his grasp. "Alright, then I just have to see for myself." Reaching down into his messenger bag, he pulled out his own iPad, opened it up and connected it to the WiFi. Within moments, he had got to my Twitter as if he had it bookmarked, then clicked through to Karl's response. Already, there were dozens of likes and reblogs and fans crawling all over the photos, reblogging either mine or his or both. "He is flirting with you," observed Ralf, in an oddly dispassionate voice, putting on his glasses to peer at the screen himself.

"Don't be ridiculous," I snorted, and suddenly got annoyed, as much at the teenagers that had started following me, as at Ralf's intrusion. Clicking through to my settings, I flicked my account over to private, and entered my password. The likes and reblogs, thankfully, stopped, but Ralf frowned at his screen as my photo disappeared from view.

"What did you do that for?" he asked.

"I don't like it, these kids looking at me."

"Then what do you have this Twitter for, in the first place?" he said, a little too smugly. I opened up my camera app, and snapped a photo of him, bending towards his iPad. "What did you do that for?"

"Maybe I'm going to reply to Karl's impersonation of Ralf Hütter at the computer with a photo of the real Ralf Hütter at the computer," I retorted, and I thought that it was completely clear that I was joking, but abruptly Ralf reached towards me. Before I realised what he was doing, he had snatched the phone from me, wrestled it out of my hand sharply, wrenching my finger in the process, and grabbed it away from me. 

"No," he said, very sharply. "You are not." And with that, he deleted the photo, before tossing the phone back onto my lap.

"Ouch," I said, rubbing my finger, which smarted badly. "You didn't need to do that."

"Do not even joke about such things," he intoned, in a coldly furious voice, though he would not even turn to look at me, staring resolutely into his iPad, reading an online newspaper.

I stared out the window, feeling suddenly sour, watching the industrial heartland of Germany slide by outside. Under any other circumstances, I would have been delighted to have been on such a train, especially travelling first class. I had never been to Berlin before, and the whole experience was to have been a revelation. But as a nasty-looking bruise slowly formed on my index finger, I felt like Ralf had snatched some joy from me. I sulked, and felt vaguely inconsolable, until Ralf got up and walked off down the carriage.

Twenty minutes later, he returned, bearing a small bag. Folding down my seat-back tray, he placed first a cup of coffee, and then a rolled-up pastry in front of me. >>A Sugar-Snail for my Sugar-Snail<< he said softly.

>>What?<< I stared at the pastry, still fuming, though I had almost entirely forgotten the reason why.

"Never mind, it is a German term of endearment. It means my darling, meine Zuckerschneke."

"Germans are so weird," I muttered. "I will never understand Germans as long as I live."

"I am trying to apologise to you," he finally mumbled. "I feel all on edge, and I don't know why. It was not fair to snap at you for that foolish picture."

I glanced sideways at him, feeling my heart soften slightly. "You're nervous about meeting the publishers, aren't you," I said softly. He shrugged uncomfortably, but said nothing. "Well, I am. I'm always nervous about turning in any preliminary draft, but this is a particularly scary one."

"I suppose," he said, like he did not want to admit that he was nervous about anything, despite all evidence to the contrary.

"I know that you're nervous, but please, can you not take it out on me, my love?"

He looked back at me with such a regretful expression that I felt my heart melting. Reaching over, I took his hand and squeezed it gently, rubbing thumb and forefinger back and forth across his skin. He looked down at the bruise coming in on my finger and frowned, but said nothing.

We arrived in Berlin as night fell. ('Und wenn die Nacht anbricht' said a voice in my head as I snapped a photo out the window.) Ralf took me by the elbow and guided me carefully through the noise and bustle of the station, as if he had been here many times before, but the new layout of the station confounded us both. "This has all changed so much over the past 20 years," he sighed, as we had to walk around the building to a different door to find the taxi rank.

We joined a short queue, then got into a taxi, which zipped off into the night. I watched shiny, post-modern buildings slide by, wondering what the journey might have looked like in decades previous. In almost no time, we reached the hotel. Ralf paid the taxi, and we walked inside, as I wondered if we were going to go through the charade of separate rooms. I noted it was the same chain we had been to in Frankfurt, the Sheraton, and the decor was so similar it reminded me oddly of that erotic weekend, holed up in the snow. This time, however, he did the talking, and neither of us had to pretend that we did not speak German. We had one large room, with two beds. Although they were identical, Ralf sat on each of them in turn and bounced lightly, before nodding his approval of his choice, turning to beam at me. >>We will sleep in this one, yes?<<

He took me out for an early dinner, in the remains of a beautiful old-fashioned restaurant that seemed to have somehow survived both the war and the communist occupation only to fall to the current decade's accelerating gentrification. But as we strolled about after our meal, arm in arm in a way we only ever dared back in cities far away from Düsseldorf, I felt oddly old and fat and un-chic. There seemed to be no one at all over the age of 30 left in the centre of the city, as if some odd disaster had struck, killing adults but sparing children. I just wanted to go back to the anonymous hotel, and be locked away in a room with my older lover.

But Ralf insisted on visiting a strange wartime bunker which had been transformed into a modern art gallery. Tours were available by appointment only, but Ralf had, as a special surprise for me, booked places for us on the very last tour of the evening. The first surprise was that the bunker was not actually underground, but stood like a crag, a great massive block of concrete with tiny, fortress-like windows, except for the very top floor, into which had been cut a ribbon of glass.

We gathered in a small cluster about the entrance, only a dozen people, all in black like a funeral party. On the stroke of 9, a guide emerged, ticked off our names against his checklist, then asked if anyone required English translation, or if it was alright if the tour was given in German. Ralf looked at me, and I shook my head, a decision I would come to regret over the next hour, as the Berlin accent took some getting used to, and at any rate, even if the accent didn't get you, the speed at which Berliners talked was dizzying. I had grown too used to the mellow, rolling German of Düsseldorf. 

The outside walls were several metres of thick concrete, so we had to pass through a low, narrow arch with an imposing iron gate into a passage that felt like a bank vault. And inside this concrete hive was a warren of rooms, some low-ceilinged and oppressive, others oddly wedge-shaped as if carved from the inside of a grey concrete mountain, rather than built in any ordinary fashion. To my eyes, the building was more interesting than the art, as we spiralled up through this strange warren of rooms. But Ralf, of course, always enjoyed trying to puzzle his way through abstract and arcane modern art. The guide rattled on in his rapid-fire German, and I caught about half of it, but mostly I let my imagination drift, and compared thoughts quietly with Ralf.

It was actually a good choice for the evening's entertainment, in that it got us talking about something other than ourselves or our affair or that damned book for the evening. I had forgotten how much fun it was to go to a gallery with Ralf. On tour, we had done it in every city, but since we came home, despite the profusion of galleries about Düsseldorf, we had somehow got out of the habit. Or, well, rather, when we were alone, we were always scrabbling for time and space to enjoy an erotic interlude. Every time we went away, we made promises to spend more time doing different things, but we never did. We ate, and we fucked. Those were simply the two things we both liked the best. But really, it was nice to stroll about this place with Ralf, discussing these arcane objects and what they could possibly mean.

I snapped a photo of the imposing facade, and posted it to Twitter. Almost immediately, Graciella liked it, and replied 'German ice cream parlour, yes?' and I started to giggle. Relenting on my defensive earlier reaction to Ralf, I showed him the tweets, and he laughed appreciatively.

Once we got back to the hotel, though, Ralf was confronted with the huge printed block of the book, lying on the desk where he had left it. The lighter mood of the evening seemed to blow away like leaf litter on a stiff breeze, as Ralf walked towards the desk. The book seemed to draw him, just tapping it thoughtfully at first, then starting to pick at it, cracking open the pages and flipping through it as fast as its makeshift binding would allow.

>>Leave it alone<< I said, walking up behind him and putting my arms around his waist, leaning my head against his slight shoulders. >>Come to bed, my love.<<

>>In a minute<< replied Ralf a little testily, still flipping through the book, as if searching for last-minute typos and corrections.

>>Now<< I insisted, circling him with my hands and tugging at his belt, but I could feel his tension through the shoulders of his back. >>There's nothing more we can do to it now. Come on, come to bed with me.<< I undid his belt and his flies, and pulled his trousers down off his hips.

>>Yes, yes<< he muttered, even as his body started to respond to me, and it was almost comical to see the brief tussle between the tense and nervous mind that wanted to read the damned book one more time, and the body that was already moving back with me towards the bed. It took a few minutes longer than I had expected, but eventually the body won out. We got to sleep together - and by sleep, I meant not just sex, but spending the night together wrapped in each other’s arms - so rarely that I wanted to take advantage of the rare luxury. It had been three weeks since Copenhagen; my skin missed him.

The next morning, the publishing company sent a cab. There was to be a meeting with the editors, and then we were to meet a photographer to take the author's photo for the dust jacket. (Of course Ralf had tried to persuade his publishers to use a photo of one of the robots, but this plan had been nixed.) Refreshed by continental breakfast and fresh-ground coffee, the pair of us got in, and were whooshed off to the shiny glass media district. The glass buildings were just as monolithic and imposing as the concrete bunker of the previous evening in their own way, but without the sense of permanence that the concrete had achieved. They looked like ticky-tacky spires and ticky-tacky office blocks, thrown up overnight, and fully expecting to be blown up in another world war.

We checked the address twice, but the building was so post-modern it was hard to find the door. But finally we were checked in by security guards, issued with passes and whooshed up the ticky-tacky spire in a very high-powered lift. We stepped out into a plush office, and a secretary showed us to a conference room. Although we weren't that high up, and the view wasn't that fantastic, it was still mesmerising, and it took every fibre of my discipline to actually pay attention to the suits entering the room, and not just press my nose to the glass, gawking at Berlin like a tourist.

I couldn't tell if this was the German outpost of an American publishing company, or vice versa, or how they were connected, but we met with two almost frighteningly American Yanks and one German, who seemed to be there as some kind of facilitator. All three of them, even the American woman, seemed to almost deliberately ignore me. I had to ask twice to even be included in the coffee round. Clearly, they had taken me for Ralf's secretary or PA or something. It was an assumption I was getting a little too familiar with.

"Mr Hutter," said the American man, who was called Brad or Chad or some kind of almost comically American man name, completely mangling Ralf's surname, so that it rhymed with Butter. So the meeting was to be in English. After the rapid-fire Berlin accept of the previous night, I was slightly relieved. "I have to say, first off, we loved the book. We really, really loved the book."

"Sure, totally, we all absolutely loved the book," repeated the American woman, showing a lot of teeth. She looked like a Jen. "You more than surpassed our expectations."

"But just a couple of minor points, Mr Hutter," hedged Chad. "The book is written in Brit English, so obviously we're going to have to standardize that to American English..."

Ralf bristled slightly. "But... this is _my_ English. Düsseldorf was occupied by the British during my youth, so this is the English I speak. We have a great affinity for the British." I could almost feel his palpable desire to reach out and gently squeeze me as he said this. It had taken me a long time to realise that Ralf was, actually, deep down, an Anglophile.

"Oh, I know your English is perfect, Mr Hutter," said Jen. "But we need to change the spelling, and some of the grammar, to make it understandable, to the American market..." Jen turned to Chad, who nodded like a puppet and also showed off a lot of teeth. "You understand..."

"No, I do not understand," countered Ralf, with a steely determination I had come to recognise well. "I was told by my lawyers, that it was written into the contract that I had the final word over any edits. We do not wish the grammar we have worked on so carefully, correct or incorrect by American standards, to be 'standardized' with misplaced zeds."

He glanced over at me, as if for back-up, and I suddenly felt the sweetness of that 'we', smiling and nodding at him reassuringly. He was acknowledging my co-authorship, though of course it flew right over the tops of the editors' heads. 

Chad and Jen exchanged glances, and their eyes hardened, though the display of teeth did not falter. It seemed that they already had some experience for dealing with difficult talent. "You are of course totally correct, Mr Hutter," said Chad. "But how about just the spelling? Can we Americanize the spelling?"

It was Ralf's and my turn to exchange knowing looks. "You _may_ ," said Ralf, very pointedly. "But only the spelling. The Oxford commas and English vocabulary stay as they are."

This went on for the rest of the morning, a steady, slow dance of feint and parry, where they would suggest some minor or not-so-minor change which Ralf would reject, and then they would negotiate a slightly different change. I took notes on Ralf's iPad, as I tried to work out their roles. Chad, with his frequent slangy to outright incorrect grammar, had to be the publisher. Jen, who was much more precise in her language, I reckoned she was the actual editor. Despite the winceworthy Americanisms, and the frequent misuse of 'totally', she struck me as someone who knew her way around an Oxford comma.

The German stayed mostly as silent as I did, and it took me some time to work out his role. Occasionally, when he wished to discuss something privately, Ralf would turn to me and speak quietly in German, as it soon became apparent that neither Brad nor Jen had a word of it. It struck me suddenly, during this meeting, just how completely Ralf and I had bonded, into this private language of lovers and collaborators, inhabiting our own world, where single glances conveyed entire conversations of meaning. It was quite a shock to realise how intimately we had grown connected, that two autistic people could even make this kind of connection.

But it was a bigger shock, as I realised that the German, watching the pair of us communicate like this, made an elementary mistake. Chad or Jen would say something that I knew Ralf would object to, so I would turn to him, waiting to see a smile or frown or a muttered German expression to express his reaction. But soon, the German started helpfully translating what Jen or Chad had said into German, apparently for my benefit! I wanted to laugh aloud. I was flattered, to be honest, that I could finally pass for a native.

It made for a moment of splendid awkwardness during lunch, when, during the rare moments that anyone acknowledged me at all, he turned to me and asked >>Are you also from Düsseldorf?<<

>>Oh, I'm from London, though I've been living in Düsseldorf for about six months now<< I replied, in a crisp and slightly exaggerated English accent. He was so embarrassed he didn't try to make conversation with me again.

It was one of the most bizarre meetings I ever sat through. But the most awkward moment did not come right until the very end. They had been through some suggestions, structural edits, which bits they wished to shorten (they did not understand why Ralf made such a point of enumerating every single drummer they had worked with, from 1968 to 1973) and which bits they wished to expand on (they always wanted more personal and romantic touches, the one thing that Ralf disliked providing the most). Jen, who correctly turned out to be the editor, said that she had marked up a PDF with her suggested edits, and would email it over to him. 

But just as we were all winding up, not quite standing up and shaking hands, but definitely at the winding down and making concluding remarks stage, Jen turned to Ralf and smiled. "You know, when we started this project, I knew that you were really, really resistant to the idea of having a ghostwriter. Which I have to admit, I thought was a mistake. But I must congratulate you, both on your English, and on your writing. I know you are going to think this is a lot of red pen, on your manuscript. But in the end, you far surpassed my expectations."

I suppose it was meant as a kind of compliment, as she definitely got the sense that Ralf did not like being corrected, and I could see from the PDF that had dropped into Ralf's inbox, that she had a lot of comments. To me, this was good and very helpful. I lived for good editorial comments, which helped me tighten and clarify my prose.

But Ralf turned the most extraordinary smile back on her, an odd mixture of both concession and I-told-you-so pleasure. "But I did use a ghostwriter," he confessed. "I just didn't use one of yours."

Jen looked shocked for a moment, but covered it quickly with one of her bland American smiles. "Really? Whom did you use? I'd love to know their contact details... This is quality work." 

A few short, successive pants of laughter shook Ralf. "Why, she is sitting at this table now."

Four pairs of eyes turned towards me. Once, I had craved approval and recognition from the publishing world, but I didn't think I had ever sat through a more awkward moment. Three people who had spent several hours either patronising me, or ignoring me in favour of my famous partner, suddenly realised that this drab creature taking notes, whom they had taken for a secretary, was actually the author of this work they had been dissecting. Recognition did not feel as good as I had always imagined it would.

Jen, as usual, swooped in and tried to smooth over the awkwardness. "Ha ha, well, it's a good thing you told us, then, Mr Hutter," she said, in an oh-Mister-Hutter-you-kidder tone of voice.

"I would like for Katrin - Kate - to be credited, on the book," added Ralf, as he remembered this was what he had offered. "As co-author. I do not know how you normally handle this, but I'm sure you can have it be arranged."

"Yes, of course. Just give me your details, Ms..."

"Tremaine," I supplied. "Kate Tremaine. I'll email you my details."

The meeting ended on a strange, and slightly sour note. The whole thing felt more than slightly anticlimactic. Since Ralf and I had been working on the book for nearly six months now, I had though there would be some thrill, some sense of accomplishment, a job well done, once we finally turned the thing in. It wasn't as if I'd expected a cake and a celebration, but on the whole, it just felt like a little bit of a let-down. Really, there was no reason for us to have come to Berlin at all. We could have emailed it off with less fuss.

The German said he would arrange for a taxi to take Ralf and I back to our hotel. No one really seemed to know how to speak to me now, and in a way, their embarrassment at trying to make it up to me felt even worse than being ignored. Perversely, I just didn't feel like making it any easier for them, and responded to their new fake warmth with cool disinterest. I just couldn't wait to get out of the shiny glass office, and back to the comfort and safety of the hotel. As the taxi arrived, and pulled out into traffic, on this wide avenue, half construction site, half glittery postmodern architecture of the most slippery kind, I realised... I did not like Berlin. I wanted to go home.

Was home Düsseldorf, or was home London? That was not a question I could answer any more.


	24. Attention Economy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ralf has to suffer through a photo shoot. Then, out on the town in Berlin, Katrin and Ralf meet up with a new friend, who is just as besotted with social media as Katrin is.

On the way home from the meeting with the publishers, I fiddled with my phone in the cab, refreshed Twitter, and saw that I had a Direct Message. To my surprise, it was from Karl Kotzübel.

>>I have just seen your tweet. You mean you are really in Berlin? Come out for a drink with me, I insist! I will be at my neighbourhood local from about 21.00 onwards.<< Then there was the address of a presumably trendy bar in Neukölln. 

I bit my lip, glancing over at Ralf and wondering if he would ever agree to meeting a friend from online. >>I'd love to, but it depends on my companion. I must warn you, that I am not alone. There is a man with me.<<

>>Oh.<< Just one word, and it was hard not to see the tension suddenly appear, that I had never noticed before. For about a minute, there was silence in my inbox, as I found myself doubting myself, and wondering if there had been some truth to Ralf's assertion that Karl had been flirting with me.

But a few minutes later, there was another DM. >>Look, it's all clear. I don't mind. I won't be jealous. Bring your boyfriend. I will leave your name, with a +1 on the door. Please come?<<

>>I will try.<< I wrote back, gazing at Ralf and trying to think how to sell him on this idea.

When we got back to the hotel, there was a message at the front desk that Ralf's photographer had arrived and was waiting in the bar. He was easy enough to spot, as he was the arty looking dude with the camera cases and a couple of folding light reflectors.

>>We are so terribly sorry to keep you waiting<< I said, finding myself slipping back into secretary mode.

>>Not a problem. I arrived early to try to scout out locations. Since Ralf is such an iconic figure in German culture, I thought it would be good if we could find a way to include some iconic Berlin location in the shot<< the photographer explained.

But Ralf frowned. >>I am not a Berliner. You have to understand, Düsseldorf is closer to Paris than it is to Berlin. This is not the world I grew up in. As West Germans, my band were not even allowed to visit Berlin.<<

The photographer looked slightly put out, but started brainstorming for other locations. There was a 'nachtcafe' around the corner, which still had lovely old world decor, which might suit. And if not, there was, down the block, a modern rent-an-office of the kind favoured by tech start-ups, which had some cool architecturally mirrored walls which might create an interesting effect.

>>Do I need to shave?<< Ralf worried aloud, touching his face and craning his neck to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the bar. 

I looked him over very carefully. Although I rather liked the softness that a slight shadow brought to his face, I knew Ralf preferred to be completely close-shaven. >>Yes, you'd better.<<

>>And will I need to change?<< Ralf continued to fuss, turning towards me.

Catching his mood, I suggested we all go upstairs, begging the photographer to wait in our room, using the free WLAN, as Ralf and I retired to the bathroom to sort out his look. Ralf shaved, then used a bit of product to restyle his hair, slicing in his very strict parting and combing his hair dead straight. It had been freshly dyed for the shoot, and was darker than I was accustomed to, as I'd grown to like the slightly ashen sheen of his natural grey coming through beneath the dark blond. I took the liberty of dabbing on a tiny bit of powder to combat shine on his forehead and darkened his eyelashes with mascara to match his hair, but really, he was already almost absurdly handsome.

He smiled as I fussed with his face, then stood back to admire my handiwork. >>Are you going to put lipstick on me, now?<< 

>>Do you want me to? I don't think I brought any.<<

>>I have always enjoyed wearing cosmetics, you know. However, although I liked the way lipstick looked, I never liked the way it feels. I would always end up chewing it off my lips, because I did not like the texture of it.<<

I laughed. >>That's why I don't wear it, either.<< He turned his face up towards me as I licked my thumb and groomed a few stray eyebrow hairs into place. >>God you have such perfect eyebrows.<<

That made him laugh, in turn. >>My eyebrows and my eyelashes. Women have always told me they envied me these things. Especially when I was younger.<< It actually seemed to relax him, to be groomed. >>Come<< he directed, returning to the bedroom, where the photographer waited. >>I need a woman's eye for my clothes.<<

I had thought that his mini-suitcase was a little large for a three-day trip, but it turned out Ralf had come prepared. He had brought three different button-down shirts, all of which had to be tried on, and two different ties. 

>>Really, a Kraftwerk red shirt would be best<< suggested the photographer, resulting in another glare from Ralf.

>>That bright red no longer suits my skin tone. I do not have the pale, rosy skin I had at 30<< he sighed.

>>Not the burgundy<< I suggested. >>You always wear that when you go to court, so I can't help but think of lawyers when I see it. Put on the darker black, not the lighter grey. It's more slimming.<<

>>Are you saying I'm fat?<< huffed Ralf, though I was almost certain he was joking, from the way he rubbed his belly. He knew I loved his belly, loved resting my head against it like a pillow.

>>More of you to love<< I teased, as he fussed over whether to button the collar or leave it unbuttoned. >>Are you wearing one of those ties?<< 

>>I don't know that I should. There's this, after all.<< Disgruntled, Ralf patted the slight wattle of his double chin.

>>Put on a tie<< I told him, fussing over him in a very wifely way. >>You look really handsome in a tie. I'll show you how to stand, to minimise that. No... the red tie. It's important to give them that hint of classic Kraftwerk.<<

Finally, he was ready, so I sprayed his hair into place, and we headed down to the Nachtcafe. The photographer talked to the manager for a bit, asking if we could do a photoshoot there, negotiating a small fee, though the manager seemed very proud of her cafe, and told us a potted history of how many generations it had been in the family, and how it had (well, mostly) survived the war. Ralf, of course, much taken by the ambience and the familiar smell of dark-roasted beans, decided to order coffee.

As soon as he sat down in the corner of a booth, against the dark red velvet of the walls, the coffee in front of him, I knew that this was the shot they would use for the author photo. I could not persuade him to unslump his shoulders, but at least he put his head forwards and angled his chin down, smiling sweetly up at the camera with his loveliest little-boy smile. He was still a beautiful man, and it was a beautiful location. I knew that everyone thought of Kraftwerk as technology and speed and modernism, but this was a side of Ralf that had come through in my writing: sentimental, slightly sweet but rather formal, and very very elegant, with just the right touch of Pre-War Germany. 

I noticed that the photographer showed me the saved images in the viewfinder before Ralf, as if realising which of us would have the best eye for what made him look good.

>>Have they decided what the cover will be?<< asked the photographer hopefully.

>>Oh, it is already decided that it will be a photograph of me performing on the stage. The only argument is, which era of performance to use, the past or the present. I prefer the future, but of course these people always want the past.<<

Once the photographer was satisfied, Ralf paid the manager, though it seemed the coffee was on the house after he had settled up the agreed fee. We walked around the corner to the gleaming new office building, but Ralf immediately turned his nose up at it.

>>Soulless<< he dismissed it, and issued instructions to the photographer to work with what he already had. He never did have the patience for photo shoots, and always viewed them as an imposition to be got over with as quickly as possible. So the photographer went back to his studio to see what he could do with the shots he'd taken, and we went back to our hotel room to enjoy the privacy and intimacy afforded by our expensive hotel room.

To my surprise, Ralf, clearly in a more relaxed and gracious mood now that the business was attended to, ordered a celebratory bottle of wine. It was unusual for Ralf to drink, and after only half a glass, his cheeks were shining a little and his eyes were twinkling. The alcohol - or maybe just the relief of the completed job - seemed to make him very frisky, teasing and touching me, even flirting with me over the rim of his wineglass.

But instead of falling into bed with him, I walked over and picked up my phone. There was another DM from Karl, telling me that he had definitely left my name on the door, so I should come to this bar in Neukölln, even just for one drink.

"What is it? Why are you so distracted by your little oracle?" he asked me, nuzzling my neck with his nose.

"We have had an, erm, invitation to meet a friend from twitter for a drink tonight. In Berlin. My new friend Karl. Erm, Karl Kotzübel, you know, the musician from the band Durchaus!" I explained hesitantly as he shuffled backwards and sat on the edge of the bed, as if willing me to join him. 

"Oh." Again, that single syllable that spoke volumes of men and their weird competitiveness. "To meet _us_ , or to meet you?"

"He knows that I am in Berlin with someone. He does not know who that someone is," I supplied.

"He flirts with you so much, he will surely be disappointed when you turn up with a boyfriend," Ralf said, a little aggressively. I could not quite believe that he could actually be jealous of some guy I knew only from Twitter. 

"Ralf," I said, turning around and taking his face in my hands. "He is a huge Kraftwerk fan. If I turn up with you, he will be delighted, not disappointed. I promise you. It will make his evening - it will make his year."

Leaning forward, Ralf laid his head against my stomach and kissed one of my breasts. I wavered, wondering if a quickie would assuage his jealousy, or if it meant that we would just disappear into bed for the rest of the evening. But then he made up his mind, and brightened, with a decisive little nod. "Alright. We will meet this young man of yours."

We took a cab over. Again, Berlin intimidated me, the avenues, the lights, the fashionably dressed young people. The bar Karl had chosen was on a side-street, down in a basement, but there was still a bouncer, and a velvet rope. Sheepishly, as Ralf paid the taxi driver, I told the bouncer that we were on the guest list, and gave him my name. He looked us over, two middle-aged people in the wrong clothes - well, Ralf looked alright in his Kraftwerk outfit, but I didn't fit - then consulted a clipboard before shrugging and unhooking the velvet rope to let us through.

Inside, it was very dark, long and narrow like a tunnel, with a bar along one wall, and tall, very enclosed, private booths on the other. There was a halogen strip behind the bar, and small tea lights in the booths, but beyond that, no lighting. Even as my eyes adjusted, it was hard to tell how many people there were, though it did not feel crowded. The music was low, classical, rather than the thumping techno so typical of Berlin. Ralf visibly relaxed; I could tell he liked the place. But I felt tense, nervous. As he joined the queue for the bar, I scanned the room, looking for the tall, angular frame of Karl. If he was in a booth, I would never find him. I glanced into the booth nearest the door, but I could see only the faces of two women, almost impossibly elderly, but very elegant, made up in an otherworldly, old-fashioned style that seemed to drip wealth, like a pair of dowager empresses. So there were old people in Berlin, after all.

I dug for my phone and loaded Twitter, opening my DMs. >>We are here. Where are you?<<

>>I have a booth. I'll come out and find you.<< From the darkness at the back of the club emerged a tall, almost skeletally thin figure. Though his face did not resolve into human features until he neared the light of the bar, I could tell from the unruly thatch of hair, that it was Karl, though he was older than he looked in airbrushed and well-lit publicity photos. His eyes cast over the small crowd by the door as if searching for someone, but his gaze slid right off me as if he didn't even see me. I didn't blame him; I never looked as cool in person as I did on the internet.

I walked up to him, and said >>Karl?<< He just looked at me blankly. >>It's me, Kate. The writer<< I reminded him.

For a moment, he looked singularly unimpressed, as if he had made an awful, terrible mistake in inviting me. I realised, with a start, that I had grown used to seeing myself through Ralf's eyes, intelligent, desirable, even beautiful. And abruptly, I was once again a chubby, faded, middle aged woman with thick glasses. Karl must have seen the annoyance on my face, because he instantly remembered his elegant Berlin manners, and extended a hand. >>So good to meet you, at last. Mysterious K from the internet.<< he purred, and as I extended my hand to shake, he seized it and raised it to his lips instead.

I laughed. Alright, that was a nice save. >>Unfortunately not so mysterious off the internet.<<

>>But no, on the contrary<< he purred, his Berlin accent stretching and deepening the doch of rebuttal. >>The night makes all women mysterious. Will you have a drink? Come to my booth and talk to me for a little while. I have wine...<< He had chosen to be charming, despite his obvious disappointment, so I warmed to him.

>>I think you should meet my companion<< I said, and turned, touching Ralf gently on the shoulder, distracting him from his study of the wine list. >>This is Karl Kotzü...<<

>>It is just plain old Karl Kotz tonight<< he interrupted with an elegant little shrug.

>>Well, this is my boss. Ralf. Ralf Hütter.<< On hearing his name, Ralf turned, and smiled benignly at our host.

In an instant, all of the jaded Berlin elegance fell from Karl's face, as his lips pulled back, and he displayed the most enormous smile, all jumbled horse-teeth and boyish enthusiasm. "Oh my god," he said in English, then put his hand to his mouth, giggling to himself a little, before remembering his manners. >>My god. Herr Hütter. I am a huge fan. I have been listening to your music since I was a child... Hearing Kraftwerk, smuggled in on cassette tapes to the East side of the Wall, it changed my life... my god...<<

Ralf smiled and extended his own hand. Karl took it, and for a moment, I was afraid he was going to raise it to his lips and kiss it, but instead he just clutched it, taking it between both of his own and just hanging onto it instead of shaking it. >>Herr Kotz. It is a pleasure.<<

Finally Karl realised he was still hanging onto Ralf's hand, and dropped it. >>I had no idea. I...<< He threw me a helpless, thankful, joyful glance, the pleasure shining all over his face. >>Thank you so much for meeting me. Both of you. Thank you. Düsseldorf City! Meet Iggy Pop and David Bowie. This is the best day of my life.<<

>>The pleasure is all mine<< said Ralf, shooting me a brief, triumphant glance. Karl was making a fool of himself, and he was glad. He did not feel that he had to compete for my attention with this goofy, ridiculous fanboy.

>>Would you mind?<< Karl asked, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out his phone. I noticed that although I had always been _du_ , he used the formal _Sie_ when addressing Ralf, stumbling over his words a little in his excitement.  >>Would you... If you don't mind... I know it is ridiculous to ask. A selfie? May I take a photo? With you?<<

Ralf laughed, and grinned tightly, though he did not show his teeth. >>I'm afraid that won't be possible.<<

>>No?<< repeated Karl, looking utterly crestfallen.

>>Well, we plainly cannot take the photo in here<< said Ralf, in a very even, deadpan voice, though I could see from his mischievous smile that he was getting ready to drop the world's worst dad-joke.

>>Why ever not?<< Karl looked like he was going to cry.

Ralf's lips crinkled up at the corner as his eyes twinkled. He was enjoying this. >>You see, the U-Bahn does not stop here any more<< he replied, and started to giggle. >>We must go outside, to the station, for your photo.<<

For a moment, Karl just stared, blinking, then his face lit up, and he actually swooned, like a teenage girl. Then he stopped, tried to compose himself, shaking a finger at Ralf, before both of them finally started to giggle. >>We shall go to the Bahnhof, then, yes?<< 

>>I would be delighted to.<<

We followed Karl back out into the night, past the fearsome bouncer, along the street, and down the avenue. He was actually bouncing slightly, giddy with excitement, talking at speed, as Ralf and I hurried to keep up. I was glad of the guide, as we raced along streets, as I would never find my way back by myself, but we turned a corner, and arrived at the Bahnhof. I took Karl's phone from him, as the two of them posed by the station sign, Karl a little awed but joyful, and Ralf calm and collected but pleased as punch. I took a number of photos, then Karl and Ralf paged through them, selecting the best one.

>>Do you mind if I post this to Twitter and Instagram?<< asked Karl, a little breathless.

>>Ach, if you must<< replied Ralf, making a gesture as if he were brushing away a fly, but secretly, I thought maybe he was pleased with this a little more than he was letting on. He was not twitching, nervous and anxious to be out of there as he had been with the Russian fans in Copenhagen. He was relaxed and sociable, and appeared to be really quite enjoying himself, charmed by the younger musician’s flattery and enthusiasm.

We went back to the bar and arranged ourselves in Karl's booth, myself and Ralf on one side, Karl on the other, as the pair of them chatted. They had decided to be friends, it seemed, as Karl hung, enraptured, on Ralf's every gesture. I took out my phone and checked twitter, wondering how the internet would greet it. The photo, I could see, was already racking up likes and retweets by the hundred, as it ricocheted first through the Durchaus! fandom, then the Kraftwerk fandom, and from there to more hip online music news outlets. But it seemed I was not the only one unable to resist the lure of the internet.

>>You are also very engrossed with this Twitter business<< Ralf broached, watching Karl flick away notifications on his phone before putting it back into his breast pocket.

>>Oh, I am completely hooked<< confessed Karl, his hand twitching to his pocket to pat the small lump of his phone. >>You don’t have an account?<< 

>>Only for the band<< explained Ralf. >>For the announcement of concerts and products and so forth.<<

I had to suppress a smile, as I knew that Müller and Falk squabbled over whose job it was to update the company twitter account, every time there was an announcement to be made. Falk, always very precise and very careful with his graphic design tools, set up these beautiful and perfectly positioned posts just ready to go, only to have Müller jump in and change them, scheduling them to go out at the optimum times to capture traffic.

>>But you are not interested in the other possibilities... for communication. For the exchange of views, direct contact with like-minded people? Even for the ability to reach out, one-on-one with fans?<< Karl asked, looking a little disappointed that his idol did not share his current obsession. 

Ralf shook his head and made a slightly distasteful face. >>I find it so banal, so shallow. All this technology at our fingertips, and people use it to... to share photos of cats and take pictures of their lunch. This is not for me.<<

>>Well, it depends on how you use it<< countered Karl, a little defensively. >>It’s only banal if you follow banal people. I can follow astronauts, who share pictures of our universe direct from space. I can follow brain scientists who share the most advanced theories of consciousness, philosophers, poets, political theorists who speak to me of the latest developments in Brasil or Nigeria or Beijing. You don’t find that amazing? Me! A little Ossi kid who grew up with a shortwave radio so bad it struggled to capture signals from the other side of The Wall. Talking to fans in Beijing? If you’d told me this when I was 15, I would have thought the chances were as remote as talking to Mars.<<

>>Well<< said Ralf, with a conciliatory smile, turning to me for backup. >>Katrin here is very taken with it. She shares amusing titbits with me, sometimes.<< 

Karl grinned at me conspiratorially, and at that moment, I found it very funny that each of them seemed to want to drag me in on their side. >>Also, without Twitter, I would never have spoken with Katrin, and therefore you and I would never have met.<< This was delivered with a wink towards me. >>So it cannot be all bad, my friend.<<

>>This is very true<< conceded Ralf, but then he reached under the table to pat my leg gently, a gesture that Karl definitely caught, and swiftly understood, sitting back, and raising his hands palms up as if to indicate that he expected no more help from me against my lover. 

>>I can see both sides<< I conceded gently, looking back and forth between the pair of them. >>Social media has changed me in so many ways... widened my horizons, expanded my possibilities, exposed me to viewpoints I had never encountered before, which changed my conceptions of justice, of fairness, of politics...<<

>>This is true, Twitter has politicised a generation of people, around the world<< agreed Karl, nodding sagely as he dug in his breast pocket for his phone again, though he had only just put it away. >>For good and ill. It has helped topple tyrants – but also helped elect them.<< 

>>But I’m also aware of how much it demands of me. How much of my time it takes up.<< I said, as Karl glanced absent-mindedly at the screen of his phone. He was nodding, to show that he was still paying attention to our conversation, but I could see that there were notifications waiting on his lock screen. >>I mean, on one hand, it’s not a passive media, it’s not like sitting and watching television. But what you get out of it is only what you put into it, in time and mental energy and... emotional labour.<<

Karl stopped, mid-flick, just as he seemed about to click to open something up on his phone. >>Emotional labour, yes I’ve heard this phrase before. In Marxist discourse. But what has emotional labour to do with social media, that is the matter for enquiry here.<< Karl’s manner of speaking was so amusing, so flowery that it was really quite endearing. He never used a simple noun like Anfrage, when he could reach for a rolling mountain of syllables, like Erkundigung. 

>>You see, Herr Kotz, emotional labour is the currency in the ‘attention economy’<< I flipped back.

That made him smile, as his long, thin fingers stopped flicking across the glossy black screen of his smartphone. “Attention economy.” He said the English words very precisely, yet with an air that suggested he disapproved of having to speak in this language. >>What a notion! Is it American? To always want to reduce everything to money. This madness for markets and economical models of human behaviour, I find it very strange.<< His head turned towards Ralf, his eyes wide, as if wanting back-up from the other German at the table, or maybe just the other man in the conversation. 

But Ralf shrugged lightly, and gestured back towards me with his open hands. In that moment, I could not have loved him more. It had seemed to me, up until that point, that Ralf was enjoying simply being an observer in the situation, waiting for the full argument to unfurl before deciding which side to take. But that gesture, where he deflected Karl’s attention back to me, I realised, was his way of saying that he respected me, he considered me the expert, someone worth listening to and paying attention to, and he wanted Karl to treat me the same way.

I smiled back at my lover, then turned to wrangle with Karl again. >>Well, attention is a limited resource. It’s not for nothing that in English, we call it ‘ _paying_ attention’. You know how they say willpower is like a muscle? << 

>>I wouldn’t know, I’ve spent my life deliberately giving in to every form of temptation<< quipped Karl with a rakish smile and a slightly salacious raised eyebrow.

>>I mean it in that, it gets tired with overuse. This is why pestering people to give in so often works.<< I looked at him over the top of my glasses, and he smirked guiltily. >>One wears down their energy to resist. Attention works the same way. Having to pay attention is exhausting. Beeps, alarms, flashing lights, flickering screens, announcements, adverts. Adverts are always trying to get your attention, to lower your resistance, get you when your willpower is at its lowest.<<

>>I always use AdBlock<< shrugged Karl, and dove back into his screen. >>I am no great fan of Capitalism and its demands.<<

>>That’s the third time you’ve checked your phone since we sat down<< I pointed out. >>Don’t you see how Social Media has overcome your resistance, has been cannibalising your attention span, to get you hooked to their feed.<< 

>>But so have you, my dear<< pointed out Ralf, elbowing me slightly. To be fair, he was the only one at the table who had made no move to check his electronic device. >>You are also addicted to the same thing.<<

>>I’m not saying I’m exempt<< I sighed, patting his thigh gently. >>I’m as complicit as anyone else.<<

>>Well, what is the problem anyway?<< asked Karl, a little superciliously. >>I have the entire history of human knowledge, captured in my palm. Growing up in such a heavily censored environment, I dreamed of such a possibility.<<

>>Are you really reading the history of human knowledge on Wikipedia<< I asked with such a strong hint of cattiness that I had to wonder if I was actually starting to feel slightly jealous that Karl seemed to be preferring the company of the people on his phone, to the people opposite him in the booth. >>Or are you checking out the number of likes, reblogs and replies to your selfie with our Ralfi.<<

>>Ah. I see<< said Karl, pushing his phone back and looking up at us from under his hair. I knew at that moment, that it was somehow no longer enough for him to be having a drink with Ralf Hütter. He needed to be _seen_ , on the internet, having a drink with Ralf Hütter. >>I am being a poor host.<< 

>>No, no<< insisted Ralf, smiling to put the younger man at ease. >>It is an interesting conversation. I know that the younger generation are obsessed with these machines, these Handys that they take everywhere. It is interesting to learn why.<<

With the added spur of Ralf’s interest, I plunged back into my topic. >>Do you know, there are people whose entire job it is, to measure just how fast or slow to space out ‘real-time’ notifications, to keep you hooked to the feed? I’ve been on Twitter, on Tumblr long enough to remember what it was like before all the metrics and numbers, before the notifications page and the activity page, and I have watched this slow but constant metricisation of our social lives.<<

To turn Metrics into a gerund was such an awful, clumsy pseudo-Germanism that Karl laughed aloud. “Metrischisierung,” he repeated, and I wasn’t sure if he was mocking me, or marvelling at the playful way I mangled German grammar. But, still, he switched his screen to standby and transferred it back to his pocket. >>These people are very clever. They do their job well. I fully admit, I am addicted. But it is fun. It is connection... contact. As you said, it is not passive, like watching a television screen. It is very creative, very playful.<<

>>But don’t you find it changes you? Changes your contacts, your connection, your creativity? If you do one tweet that gets a hundred likes, and another that gets none, don’t you find yourself second guessing yourself, subtly changing your style, changing your tweets, to be more like the ones that get a hundred retweets, and less like the ones that get none?<<

The smile abruptly dropped from Karl’s face. >>Not that I’ve noticed...<< 

>>Not that you’ve _noticed_ << I echoed, and Karl looked abruptly alarmed. He was staring at me as if realising that a conversation he had taken for a playful game had just taken a rather more serious tone, and I noticed him focusing on me, as if really looking at me for the first time. >>Though I’m not even sure that being aware of the phenomenon diminishes its effect<< I stuttered, feeling rather self-conscious under his intelligent gaze.

>>But every artist has always had this kind of circular feedback experience with their audience<< protested Karl. >>Is it not true, Ralf? If the fans dance to a song, you know this is a good song, a good direction to go in, and it’s a valid response, to make more songs like that.<<

>>Yes, this has always been my favourite part of performing live<< agreed Ralf. >>Receiving this kind of feedback. I worry when the audience does not dance... though, these days, our audience and ourselves are all ageing. I do not worry myself if people do not dance so much at the sit-down gigs.<< 

Karl looked slightly less worried himself, and touched his chest lightly, as if to ascertain that his phone remained in his breast pocket.

>>But, you know, there’s an objective in all that<< I countered. >>The point of music is to make people dance. You know the music is working if people dance. It’s working towards a deliberate goal. Making people move. But on social media, what is the end goal? Twitter is shaping you, shaping your behaviour towards something... but what? Making you keep hitting refresh? Making you keep pulling down the notifications page, hoping for the little instant hit of a like or a reblog?<<

>>What could be the objective? What conclusion are you are reaching for? What am I missing?<< Karl’s curiosity genuinely seemed piqued, as his words flew out in a great rush. >>I do my best to keep up with technological news. I know what they say – if you are not paying for a product, you are the product being sold. But I am not a technological person. I don’t think this way. Have we on the internet become just a great Petrie Dish, a great marketing experiment? Have you seen the news on how Facebook and this new company, Cambridge Analytica, have influenced American and British elections? This concerns me, this worries me, yes. But this worry that social media itself, is changing me, changing the way I communicate, oh, Katrin, this is a new paranoia for me to worry about.<< At that moment, I felt bad for raising it, as I did not know Karl well enough to be able to tell if this nervous energy was due to distress or excitement, but he seemed quite agitated.

>>Hush, hush, both of you<< said Ralf, in his calm, soothing Papa Klingklang voice. >>The two of you are like one egg to another, always consulting the little oracle, stroke, stroke, stroke, like you are playing with a little pet. Katrin, you are the pot speaking about the kettle here. Now, I insist. Put the phones away. No more Computerwelt. Leave Interpol and Scotland Yard alone for the evening. At this moment, we are in Berlin, not on the internet. So let us _be_ in Berlin. << He thumped the table with the palm of his hand, and both Karl and I stopped our urgent streams of talk.

Karl sat up, and shifted in his seat, pushing his hair back from his face as he tried to regain his composure. It was funny, and yet endearing, the way he seemed to swing back and forth between cool, elegant rock star, and complete geek. >>You are out of wine!<< he suddenly noticed, looking over at Ralf’s glass, and realising he was being an inattentive host. >>Please, Herr Hütter, I insist. Have some more, you are my guest.<< 

>>Please<< replied Ralf, allowing his glass to be filled. >>It is _Ralf_. And do stop with the Sie, it makes me feel like my own father. <<

“Es tut mir Leid,” said Karl, with a distinct grin, then did his best to change the subject. >>You are correct, we are in Berlin. Let us enjoy Berlin. So tell me, Herr... Ralf, what do you make of my beautiful city?<<

>>Oh, I like Berlin<< Ralf said with a faint smirk. >>We are not so provincial in Düsseldorf as to be immune to the Capital’s charms. But I find it very much changed.<<

>>The more Berlin changes, the more she stays the same, the more she stays the same, the more she becomes unknowable<< intoned Karl, with such a lilt to his voice, that I wondered if it were a song.

>>How do you feel about these changes, since you are a native<< I asked. It was the kind of question I knew Ralf would be quite curious about, but would consider it overly prying to ask.

>>I do not mind change. As soon as one stops changing, one stops growing. And when one stops growing, one starts dying<< said Karl.

>>Oh yes, this is what I am always saying to Katrin.<< Ralf warmed to the topic. >>It is like cycling – one must always go forward; motion and change is imperative. As soon as one stops moving forward, one stays no longer upright.<< 

Karl laughed, an appreciative new audience to an old joke.

>>But one has to wonder<< Ralf continued, picking up speed now that he was on a topic he was more familiar with. >>Who it is that is driving the change, and who it is that benefits from the change. If the change is to serve the people, or if the change is to serve only Capitalism. Change is good, but this obsession with growth, always economic growth... unrestricted growth is the philosophy of a cancer.<<

I had to suppress a laugh, as I recognised the phrase, and knew that he had taken it wholesale from the book on autonomous communities that he had picked up in Christiania the previous month, but Karl slapped the table, his eyes lighting up with interest. The topic was clearly of great interest to both of them.

>>Precisely!<< Karl almost yelped. >>For many years, Berlin was so backwards, so poor, that we were spared this cancer. I have such mixed feelings, because under Communism, so many things were left to decay, left to just go to ruin. Berlin was left to look after itself. And we looked after ourselves. So many things we did, after Communism, were informed by this spirit. We founded clubs, started labels, built communities where there had been _nothing_ , because if we didn’t, who would?<<

Ralf smiled and nodded, pleased to have struck such a chord. >>We did the same thing, with Klingklang. We wanted to be completely independent.<< He rolled out the syllables, un-abhängig, so that to be dependent sounded a very disdainful thing indeed. >>Autonomous.<<

Karl was on a roll now, picking up Ralf’s topic and running with it. >>Autonomy, yes! This was our dream. And yet as soon as we’ve got a good thing going on, the Americans turn up. At first, it is just students and artists, driving up the rents that once were so cheap. And then it is tourists, and the whole city turns to AirBNB, so you can no longer find a place to live. And before you know it, the Americans are everywhere, with their money and their venture capitalism, and their private real estate deals. And they want to gobble it all up, everything that we’ve done! Turn the entire waterfront of the Spree into luxury hotels and condominiums, turn the Tempelhof airport from a nature park to a private development for millionaires...<< He paused only to take a drink.

>>It’s exactly what they’ve done in London<< I interjected. >>Knocked down clubs and community spaces, put up expensive tower blocks, left empty most of the year, bought by millionaires only for the investment. It’s shocking..<<

“Furchtbar!” agreed Karl, his harsh Berlin accent making it sound like a terrible swear. >>Berlin – thankfully – has a bit more sense. There are starting to be new regulations, which we have fought for. The city must take into account cultural and community value, as well as just financial considerations.<< He nodded proudly as he gestured around him. >>And so institutions like this survive.<<

>>I like this place<< agreed Ralf, beaming. >>Elegance and decadence. One cannot place a price on such things. You have extremely good taste, my young friend.<<

And Karl grinned from ear to ear, pleased that he had made such a good impression on this musician he admired so much. And so, in that dark basement in Berlin, the shy, geeky elder statesman of synth-pop, and the zany, outspoken post-punk bassist decided to be friends. Karl was erudite, in that inquisitive way that Ralf really appreciated, but he could also be very funny, with a wit as sharp as his intellect. Ralf was normally very shy and a bit standoffish with strangers, but Karl’s humour and energy drew him out. Watching their dance of admiration, I decided to step back, and the pair of them sank deeper and deeper into conversation, as the level of drinks went down in our glasses.

With a glass of wine in him, Ralf relaxed completely, his face shining with bonhomie. And once he felt completely comfortable and at home, Ralf started explaining to Karl why we were in Berlin, detailing the book we had just written. And I was very flattered that Ralf wanted to impress upon Karl my role in the book, and how well we had worked together. To my surprise, Karl was as impressed by the idea of a book as he was by the musician. He kept half-flattering, half-pestering Ralf, both for anecdotes, and for advice, because of course Karl had always secretly wanted to write a book about his time in Durchaus! And Ralf, of course, was pleased to be asked for that advice, and did his best to oblige. (I was gracious, and did not point out that most of the writing advice Ralf chose to give Karl was advice I had previously given him, or his daughter.)

Karl lapped up Ralf’s anecdotes, asking more and more questions, thoughtful musician questions of the kind Ralf actually liked to answer. Sometimes Ralf would laugh and say, well, you will have to read the book. But mostly Ralf was flattered by the sincere interest, and blossomed into some wonderful discussions, the two of them finding much common ground.

We finished the bottle of wine, and decided to stay for another. While Ralf went up to the bar, insisting that it was his turn to pay, Karl rested his elbows on the table, and gazed at me directly, through his curtains of hair. 

>>This is nothing at all like I imagined<< he finally confessed. >>You’re not how I imagined.<<

>>I will choose to take that as a compliment<< I laughed.

>>Yes, I suppose it is<< he grinned, then softened a little. >>Ralf holds you in very high esteem<< he observed, and I couldn’t help myself, I flushed a little. He noticed, and raised an eyebrow. >>That’s not the only way he holds you, is it.<<

I took a deep breath, then decided that Berlin could handle my secrets. >>Don’t get excited. I’m just the mistress.<< 

A faraway look came into Karl’s eye for just a moment, but then he shrugged and leaned far back into his bench, so that his face was shrouded in shadows. >>He’s a very lucky man.<<


	25. Doxxed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katrin's social media flirtation has not gone unnoticed. And so a jealous little fangirl decides to take her revenge.
> 
> Content note for doxxing, internet stalking, false allegations and what is legally known as "vexatious complaint".

All in all, we had a wonderful evening. By the time we got back to the hotel (comparatively early, despite Karl's entreaties to go on to a later club when the bar closed) Ralf was in a fine mood. After the tension of the meeting with the publisher, and the annoyance of the photo shoot, an evening of flattery from a clever young musician had really cheered him up. And after an excessive amount of wine, well for Ralf at least, he wasn’t quite drunk, but he was feeling more than a little frisky.

Being alone in a hotel room together, without having to worry about being overheard, as in his office, or interrupted, as in any other setting, it was wonderful to have a frisky Ralf. I liked the idea that I could actually climb into bed, and lie down with him, our arms around one another, staring into each other’s' eyes, secure in the knowledge that we could actually stay there for the next ten hours. Actually _sleeping_ together was still more of a novelty than sex.

Shifting slightly, Ralf climbed on top of me, and looked down into my face, smiling faintly, though he had not removed his trousers. We never had sex in missionary position like this, so it was a bit disconcerting to look so intently into his eyes. In the intimate dimmed light of the bedside lamps, they were so dark a blue they were almost like a night sky, a deep velvety azure.

>>What?<< I asked, smiling back at him. I liked having the weight of him against me, feeling like I could hold him up. 

>>Nothing. I am just looking at you. It is nice to look at you.<<

>>You are looking at me with the same faraway look you were examining that terrible modern art yesterday.<<

Ralf chuckled to himself. >>This may be true. But I would still rather have you, than the entire Sammlung-Boros. You are much more beautiful to me than a malfunctioning popcorn maker. And I felt proud to be with you, tonight. That young man, he envied me.<<

I was going to contradict him, but remembered that strange thing Karl had said to me, while Ralf was at the bar. Still, I shrugged it off the best I could. >>Maybe he just wanted a ghostwriter.<<

Ralf grinned, a mischievous look coming over his face. >>He envied me for your intelligence, yes, that is true. And he did envy that you had written my book.<< But then his eyes widened, as his face suddenly grew very honest. >>But you know I could not have done this without you... written this book, I mean.<<

>>It's my job<< I shrugged lightly, and kissed the tip of his nose.

>>You've treated it as more than your job. I have been interviewed many times, by many people. Too many times, perhaps. But it has been different, with you. This has been a labour of love, I know that it has. It would not have been the same, without that love.<<

I looked up into his face, this man I loved, and tried to shrug off what I knew to be an honest compliment. >>And just think, you're not done yet. That photo shoot earlier tonight was just the start. When the book comes out, you know that Chad and Jen will have you do so many more interviews, to promote the book.<< 

Ralf made a face, then bent down to kiss my shoulder. >>Ach, interviews. I don't know why I agree to do interviews. I hate them.<<

>>No you don't<< I laughed, as his mouth moved from my shoulder to my neck, nuzzling gently. >>I think that you secretly really love doing interviews. I watched you letting Karl ask you all those questions tonight, and how you lapped up his appreciation for your answers.<< 

>>Karl is a nice fellow<< he insisted. >>I like him a great deal. He asks intelligent questions.<<

>>I think it’s more than that. Maybe you're like some kind of junkie for the approval you get from the press. It’s a common problem in musicians<< I laughed, almost trying to wind him up.

Pulling his head back, Ralf looked down at me carefully. >>How can you know me so well, and misrepresent me so badly?<<

>>I’m teasing you my love. But you seemed to find something from Karl.<<

>>But it's not approval that I'm looking for, from fans, from the press, from interviews, from this book, even.<< he insisted. 

>>Tell me, then<< I insisted. >>I want to understand.<<

>>But that is exactly it, my love.<< He got the most extraordinary expression is his face as he beamed down at me. >>Understanding<< he finally supplied. >>I don't want approval, I want _understanding_. <<

I gazed back up at my lover, and smiled. Was this the gift I had managed to give him? I stared back at him, drinking him in as if trying to remember this view, the two of us tumbled so close together. His skin was such an odd mixture of colours, the soft grey where his beard would come in, the pink of his cheeks, the road-tan from the hours he spent cycling, the spray of freckles across his receded temples. His little-boy smile, though, was irresistible, as he bent his head gently to kiss my neck, again and again, his lips reaching my collarbone, then drifting gently lower, parting my shirt to kiss my breasts. I murmured softly to ask him to raise his hips so I could push his trousers off them, then opened my legs, and let him slip inside me. 

>>I'm not hurting you, am I<< he asked in a soft voice. I don't know why, but it still surprised me, how he was so concerned for my pleasure. 

>>No, it's fine<< I said, angling my hips as he started to rock back and forth against me. >>I think I had at least half of that second bottle of wine...<< My voice trailed off as he kissed me, my breaths growing shallow as he really started to screw me in earnest. I wasn't used to being so close, looking in his eyes like this, and the intensity of his gaze scared me a little. 

>>I love to watch you when you come<< he breathed in my ear, as if he could tell how close he was bringing me. >>Do you know, sometimes you make the same faces when you write, chewing on your lips, screwing up your eyes...<<

I laughed aloud, but pushed at his shoulders. >>I can't get the right angle to come. Let me go on top...<<

>>Of course.<< Putting his arms around me, he rolled over and pulled me right on top of him without even slipping out of me. Showering his face with little kisses, I started to grind against him in earnest, feeling my pleasure building, as he reached up and pushed my hair out of my face. Looking down at him, I took a deep breath and pushed myself towards orgasm, almost surprised by how easy it had become to come with him. We had grown to know one another's bodies, and trust one another completely. I saw his slight smile of triumph, and a bit of pride, as I slumped back against him, catching my breath. For a moment, he just held me, his arms firm around my back, then he started to stroke again, headed for his own orgasm. It took him a little longer, but I could see relief break across his face. Then we lay back together, just holding one another, listening to each other’s' heartbeats slowing.

>>I love you<< he said at last. >>But my leg is going to sleep.<<

>>I'm so sorry<< I gasped, and moved, letting his deflating cock slip out of me as I slid off him. He liked to try to stay inside me as long as possible, a luxury that was not always possible at his office. I put my arms around him, and folded his head against my chest, as he murmured his sleepy happiness to my breasts. I felt so tender at that moment, I just wanted it to last forever, holding him against me, running my fingers through the thin, silky-soft hair at the crown of his head.

>>I feel so happy, when I am with you, holding you close like this<< murmured Ralf, as we were both falling asleep. >>I wish I could hold you like this over and again, forever.<<

I giggled sleepily at the German phrase, singing softly into his hair, “Immer wieder, rauf und runter, einmal drauf und einmal drunter...” 

>>Stop it, I’m serious.<< He tried to raise his voice, but we were both nearly asleep.

>>No you’re not.<<

>>What if I was? What if I wanted to be with you forever?<< 

>>Darling, don’t ruin a good thing by trying to make it forever.<< It was another song lyric that just popped into my head, probably from Karlheinz’s pop radio. But I closed my eyes and was asleep before I could think what he was asking.

 

\----------

 

The next morning, in a slightly more sober mood, we took the train back to Düsseldorf, and I took my edits back to Klingklang. 

There was a tweet from Karl already waiting for me, making me laugh with his typical sense of humour. >>Thank you so much for the most perfect evening. I am forever in your attention-debt, your emotional labourer K x<<

>>Glad to oblige<< I wrote back. >>Der Chef liked you. He says any time you come to D-dorf, you are his guest.<< 

On the train home, Ralf had downloaded his email, and flipped through the PDF from Jen before simply throwing his hands up at it. Telling me that he trusted me, he forwarded the email to me, and CC:d in Jen (whose name wasn't actually Jen, it was Hannah) asking her to liaise directly with me over any edits. I was under loose instructions to make any changes I thought were sensible, and ignore any I felt were not helpful, but other than that, he wanted to leave me to it. We would discuss them again when my work was done.

When we returned to Klingklang, I was back in my own office to work on the next draft, as Ralf had meetings with various Belgians about the upcoming shows in Antwerp. Off he went to arrange video clips of Belgium with Falk, and discuss the sound reinforcement requirements with Robbo and these technicians from the Belgian venue, leaving me with a river of red pen to sort out with the American editors.

So I was alone in my room when an email from Hans dropped into my inbox. It took me a moment to jog my memory that he was the editor of _This Band Could Be Your Life_ , but then I remembered that he had been the person to initially put Ralf, or at least his lawyers, in touch with me. I had never thanked him for that. But as I read the email, I felt my heart start to thud at the base of my neck, as an odd vomitty kind of feeling rose in my stomach.

'Hi K, I hope you are well. I don't know if I should actually bring this to your attention, or you are already aware of it. But I have a weekly Googlealerts set up for This Band Could Be Your Life, to see if it's been reviewed anywhere. This past week, this came up. I honestly don't know what to think of this. But I thought I should pass it on, that you would want to know.' 

And then there was a link to Katrin Hütter's tumblr. Not Zeitpunkt, but her personal, 1000 followers shit-post blog. I could feel a vague, panicky, swirling sensation in my stomach as I clicked the link, sucking at my heart like swampland sucking at muddy boots, as solid ground gave way and turned to rising waves of quicksand as I read what was unfolding before me.

> 'friends and fans, i have some bad news. some of you know that some ~weird shit~ has been going down in my life recently. i have tried so far to confine my discussion of this topic to only vague allusions and hints, because i honestly thought this person was my friend. i honestly thought that if i kept quiet, that they would see the error of their ways and come correct to me. but this shameless whore will never come correct. she will never admit what she did to me. and now i see her playing the same tricks with another innocent person, well, as the song goes >>Es ist Zeit, dass diese ganze Geschichte herauskam<<
> 
> 'kate tremaine, the woman who wrote kraftwerk's _this band could be your life_ , the woman who is now co-writing my father's autobiography, is an evil predator. i give no shits! it is sausage to me! i have proof that this person is thoroughly toxic, and i will give it to you!'

Straight away, she stared in by doxing me. My name - my real name from my bank account (she must have got it off my cash cards when she had my bag) as well as the 'Kate Tremaine' pseudonym I used for music journalism and everywhere else on the internet. My email address, my blog address, various pseudonyms I had used on messageboards and journalism over the past fifteen years, all of them spread out over her blog, without so much as black bars redacting my personal info.

That was the really creepy part, the thoroughness with which I felt like someone had poured through my online traces, my datamüll for the past two decades. There were screen grabs of messageboard posts from the early 00s. Archived usegroup posts to alt.music.kraftwerk from back in the 90s, before she was even born. My Tumblr, my Twitter, copies of private emails I'd sent. I felt like I'd been burgled, been hacked. I felt _violated_. It felt like someone had gone through my trash, rifled through my attic, and tipped out the contents of my underwear drawer all over the internet, someone's dirty little fingers rummaging through every aspect of my past. And not just anyone's little dirty fingers. But the greedy fingers of a malicious little girl who felt jilted by my refusal to be her stepmother, and wanted to wreak havoc on my life... for what? For revenge? For retaliation? For some desperate grab for my attention?

I stared at the grey walls of my office, just trying to stop the world from spinning. Common sense told me I should just shut down the window and call her father, call the police, hell... call her mother. But no. I had to know what was in there first. I started to tabbing down the page, just trying to work out how much of it there was, and realised it went on and on and on for pages and pages. Three pages down. Four. Then Five. How much of this was there? Although there were a few screenshots, most of it was just solid walls of ranting. 

She appeared to have invented this whole, topsy-turvy world, completely centred around herself, where, apparently, I had been in unrequited love with Ralf. Because of this obsession, I had allegedly chased after her, pursuing her attention and her affections in a desperate attempt to get to her father through her, and split up her family. I gasped aloud, just staring at the screen open-mouthed, trying to get my head around the degree of narcissism that could twist her dogged hounding of me, online and off, into this imagined scenario where I had somehow pursued her.

On and on, it went, this bizarre fantasy where I was supposed to have manipulated and groomed her online, in order to get to her family. And all these self-dramatising fantasies about how I apparently went out of my way to try to captivate and entice her with deliberately-aimed posts on my blog, before pressuring her into a friendship. I would actually have laughed at the idea of me, stalking her, me pursuing that spoiled little teenager I had done my best to shake off, and had eventually had to _block_ on three different accounts, had it not been so serious, and had I not seen the dozens of notes from her friends, expressing sympathy and commiseration and urging her to call the police. You have got to be kidding me. She's dug through two decades of my online history to find anything that looks even remotely incriminating, but she should call the police on me?

Honestly, my first reaction was to laugh. Not even hysteria, but just some sudden bark of utter disbelief. "My god," was my honest first gut reaction. "If only she had shown _half_ of this imagination in her actual writing." 

And then I saw the reblog about halfway down. Katrin had specifically started the blog with a plea for people to contact her directly, rather than reblogging it. But one of the most obnoxious teenagers from the Kraftwerk fandom, a girl I had previously tangled with because of her habit of nicking my artwork, removing my copyrights and posting it on to Facebook, she had reblogged it, and I could see from the notes after that, that it had got into the fandom. People I _knew_ would have seen it. People I had not trusted enough to tell that I was moving to Germany to work for Kraftwerk, but people who had, still, noticed that my personal posts were all photos of Düsseldorf. Oh Christ.

I was still gaping at the screen when Müller went loping by, on her way to Ralf's office. She dropped off a couple of brown cardboard packages she'd been carrying, then looped back. Things had been off and on awkward between us for some time, so I wasn’t sure if she was going to ask me to join her for a vape, but she glanced in my direction, and then stopped dead when she saw my face. >>What's up? You look like you've just seen a ghost.<<

>>Well, in a manner of speaking... oh fuck...<< For a moment, I panicked, wondering if I even wanted to share this with anyone from Klingklang, but then decided I had no choice. Müller was such a techy whiz, she was a digital native when it came to the internet. If anyone could help me, she could. I gestured for her to come in and close the door. >>I don't even know if you can understand this, because it's mostly in English...<<

"Hey, I can reet English OK. I can only not schpeek zo goot," she told me, then leaned over to look at the screen. "Vaht tah fuck is diss?"

>>Do you remember how I told you I could not risk running into Katrin Hütter? Well, this is why. You see, this is a blog she's decided to write about me.<<

Müller started to read, her face slowly looking more and more shocked. >>Shit!<< she finally exclaimed, as she got about halfway down. >>Is this true?<< 

>>What the fuck, Müller, how can you think it's true?<< I exploded.

>>Well, you were asking me about her a couple of months even before that party incident.<<

>>I was asking you about her, because the kid started internet-creeping on me. I wanted to know if she was sound, or if this was going to be a problem. I had no idea how this would blow up... Christ. I swear to god. What she is writing, that is not how it happened. This kid fucking threw herself at me, because she had this fantasy I was going to marry her father, and take her away from Jutta, off to some punk wonderland in London.<<

>>Holy shit<< repeated Müller. >>That family is fucked up. I mean, I'm not a big fan of Jutta, but... Wow, you know, Kate, some of this looks bad. Did you really write this?<<

The first screen grab was an out of context snapshot from an old messageboard thread dated over a decade earlier. It was a place where I'd met and hung out online with several of my then-bandmates in the early to mid 00s.

> 'Yes, and of course he will fall so desperately in love with me that he will leave his wife and his family to come and be bewitched into living with me forever in our purple paisley lovenest in Clerkenwell.' - KrautrockK8 10.15 25-07-2004
> 
> 'and what about his kids, K, would you really besmirch your good name by homewrecking such a beautiful family?' - I'm The Singer I Do What I Like 10.18 25-07-2004 
> 
> 'lookit his kids K. LOOK! AT! THEM!!! how could you do that to these adorable little babbies you shameless hussy, you' - The Little Drummer Girl 10.29 25-07-2004
> 
> 'Well! I am no homewrecker! His kids, too, will fall so desperately in love with me that they, too, will leave their family, I mean, rejoin their family to come and be bewitched by me. What can I say, it's a big purple paisley partition of paradise I have here in Clerkenwell. The cute kids are welcome.' - KrautrockK8 10.45 25-07-2004 

>>Look, for a start, it's from 2004! How is this supposed to be relevant? And honestly, it's 'banter', it's jokes. We were all just 'taking the piss'. Is this even a concept you have in German?<< I tried to explain, lapsing into English for phrases that really had no German equivalent. How did you explain _banter_ to a German?

Müller shrugged, then looked thoughtful for a minute. "Shit-talking," she supplied, apparently one of the few English compound words that had translated directly into German. 

>>Look. I'm going to try to explain the context behind this. That messageboard was a series of slangy in-jokes between a few dozen people in the UK Indie music scene, almost all of whom lived in London and met up in pubs and went to gigs together every week. It was a bunch of real-life mates, so it was always full of piss-takes and references to stuff that had happened off-board and IRL. Including gigs by my own band, who were, admittedly, London scenesters at that point. Three out of the four members of my then-band posted on it regularly, and the fourth girl lurked, but didn't post. The thread from which Katrin lifted this snipped was supposed to be a thread dedicated to promoting our band's gigs, but it was always a simmering hive of gossip about the band, stuff that had happened at our gigs, and shitposting about each other’s' personal lives. It was all in good fun. It was all just between mates.<<

>>But you got to admit, that looks pretty incriminating...<< pointed out Müller.

>>Come on, it was so clearly just dumb banter! We were chatting shit about a film actor that all of us were half in love with. Earlier up the thread, we had been joking about getting him to play the romantic lead in one of our videos. Purely theoretical videos at the point, I might point out. But more to the point, it wasn't even about me. It was a dig, a reference to our fourth bandmate, Christina, the one who read but didn't post. She was... Well, at the time she was having this semi-secret affair with a man who was in the process of leaving his wife and three children. It was an open secret; almost everyone on the thread knew about it, though we were at great pains not to spell it out. 'I am no homewrecker' was a sly dig at her, as it was what she used to protest every time we ribbed her about him. I wasn't even saying it was what I wanted. I was taking the piss out of Chrissy. That was common knowledge, in that social circle, in 2004, and everyone would have known I was talking about her by saying that. But out of context, 13 years later... Christ.<<

Müller paged down the thread, and laughed as she saw a screen grab from usenet, from alt.music.kraftwerk, featuring that photo of Ralf in long hair and leather trousers. >>KateKrautrock@aol.com - oh my god, is that you? I can't believe you were on AOL. The September that never ended...<<

>>Shut up, were you even alive in 1994?<<

>>I was; I was 12<< laughed Müller. >>I can't believe you were saying such blatantly fangirl things about Hütter. What is 'skanky ho boy', I don't think I understand that English term?<<

>>It's just a comment on the leather trousers, really<< I cringed. >>And if I recall correctly, I got a righteous beatdown for it, from the very male and very misogynist denizens of Usenet, who did not take kindly to fangirls.<<

Müller continued to scroll down the page, squinting at screengrabs of emails I had sent. >>She keeps saying that you went after her, that you pursued her... that you were 'grooming' her... does that mean what I think it means in English?<<

>>It's what they say about paedophiles, when they try to butter up their victims. I did no such thing. I did everything I could to put her off. She used to jump on me the moment I went online, and just bombard me with likes and comments until I'd talk to her. If I didn't answer her first message, she'd send like three more, until I responded. This is the complete opposite of what happened. She chased after me like a puppy. I swear to god, if I showed you the emails she sent me...<<

>>But this is an email from you, offering to help her with writing. I mean, that backs up what she says, about how you offered to help her with her writing career...<< 

>>Müller, it was a reply to a request she sent me. Sure, the email and the datestamp are genuine enough, but she's edited out the 're:' from the title. And look how she has chopped it, she has published only my reply, and chopped out the email from her that I was responding to. Hang on, I will show you the original email, it's still saved in my sent folder on my yahoo account.<<

Müller watched as I tabbed to another window, and logged onto my email. I searched for Katrin's email account, and up came reams and reams of emails. Müller looked a little alarmed at first, but then peered closer, as she saw that on balance, I was the recipient of more than twice those I had sent. Flicking down until I reached the correct date, I located the email - which, as I pointed out, had definitely had a 're:' in the title indicating that it was a reply - then opened it in a new window. 

Müller sat down beside me and took over the controls of the laptop as she tabbed back and forth between the original email and the screengrab on Katrin's blog. It was indeed as I had said, a reply to one of her emails, in which Katrin was practically fawning over me as she asked me for tips. >>You're right<< conceded Müller, as if there had been any doubt in her mind. >>This is a reply. She originally wrote you to ask what you thought of her blog post, but all we see is your reply, where you start off saying her blog is really good, but that you have suggestions for how to make it better. Hey, and look. She's removed a whole chunk of what you wrote. I wonder what she did that for. What's the missing section?<< 

As I turned the screen back towards me, I looked at the two emails side by side, and Müller was right - something had been cut out. It was a sentence where I suggested that she use fiction as a way of exploring her complicated and conflicted feelings about her family. But from there, it jumped straight to a following sentence, where I tried to reassure her, saying that all teenage girls went through phases where they hated their 'swine of a mother', that it was perfectly natural, but with no indication at all that 'swine of a mother' was something I was quoting directly from her own email. The next sentence, too, had been cut out, the one where I told her that I had outgrown my resentment towards my own mother, and I thought it likely that she would, too.

The difference between the original and the edited email was so startling that even Müller noticed it, right off the bat. >>So she took an email where you were responding to her calling her mother a pig, telling her to write as a way of working through those feelings, and assuring her that she would grow out of it... and she edited it to make it look like you randomly emailed her out of the blue to compliment her on her blog, then just had a go at her mother, for no reason. Sneaky.<< She paused, looking up at me. >>Why would she do this? Why would she publish something that is so easily disproved, just by publishing the full email?<<

I chewed my lip, trying hard to stifle one of those _very bad_ feelings in the bottom of my stomach.  >>I have the awful feeling that that is exactly what she wants. That she _wants_ me to respond. That it's bait to try to suck me back into a conversation again. If she can't get attention in a positive way, she'll go for negative attention. << 

>>That's awful... but it does make a creepy kind of sense<< muttered Müller, continuing to scroll down the mad screed of the blog post, reading aloud as she went. "She found my blog, and started leaving me likes and comments and unsolicited feedback on it, in an attempt to befriend me and win my trust."

>>Again, that's not even true. Look at the timestamp on the first email she sent me - asking me to take a look at her writing - and look at the timestamp on the first notes I left on her blog. I only looked at it, because she _asked_ me to look at it. <<

Müller checked, nodded, then carried on reading. "She bombarded me with Asks on Tumblr, monopolising my time and thoughts more and more..." 

>>Monopolising her thoughts? What does that even mean? How am I responsible for how much she thinks about me?<<

>>That is kinda creepy, now you mention it. But what about these Asks? There's a couple of them... two... three. Not exactly bombarding, but these definitely look like you did send her Asks, which she published. Though this is hardly incriminating stuff. Actually, it's kinda random, points on English grammar and the like? Haha, hardly the way to a teenager's heart.<<

>>I did send her Asks<< I sighed. >>And that's my fault, because, Tumblr Asks have such a weird system. It doesn't keep a record of both sides of the conversation. If you reply to an Ask, it vanishes from your inbox. So rather than lose the question, I would respond to one of her Asks with another Ask. That's why they're so random; they're replies, not questions. Look, I can show you this...<<

>>Knock yourself out.<< Müller pushed the laptop back towards me.

I logged onto Tumblr, but then realised that while I was logged in, the block worked both ways. She couldn't interact with my posts, but I couldn't see her notes or her asks. >>I'm going to have to unblock her for a minute<< I sighed, and went to my settings. I removed her from my block list, then went back to my activity page, and brought up the last month's worth of activity. Even weeks later, she was still sitting at the top of my "fans" for the sheer volume of notes she'd left. >>Just look at this<< I said, paging down the notes, and showing her the solid blocks of notes from KrefeldPunkKatrin.

>>Get a screen grab of that<< said Müller. I did what I was told, then moved to my inbox, to show her the Asks from Katrin that I had been responding to. In context, responding to questions about which phrase would sound better in English, my odd 'questions' about English grammar made a lot more sense. >>Get a screen grab of that, too.<< I went into my DMs and showed her all the messages that had accumulated from her there. >>Wow, that is a lot of messages. How long were you two talking?<<

>>Only a couple of weeks<< I protested. >>Look, you can see, she would send two, three, even four messages in a row if I didn't respond to her straightaway.<<

Müller turned and looked at me, and for the first time, I actually saw it through someone else's eyes. It did not look good, a middle aged woman communicating that much with her married lover's teenage daughter. >>Why did you keep responding to her? I wouldn't have had the patience.<<

I stared down at the inbox, feeling really guilty and ashamed about the whole thing. >>I was... well, for a start I was flattered. You can see, she kept saying nice things about my writing.<<

>>Kate, you've been writing professionally for how many years now?<<

>>It never goes away, OK? The desire for recognition, the drive for likes, for kudos, for comments...<< I swallowed nervously as I realised that this was a huge part of what had sucked me into an affair with Katrin's father, too. The idea that someone really loved my writing enough to want to be the lead character in it? That had been intoxicating. >>But also, OK, I've been lonely, alright? Moving to a new country, starting over at a new job, it's all really dizzying and disorienting. I didn't realise until I started talking to Graciella, how starved I was, for companionship that wasn't somehow connected to my job.<<

Müller turned to me, her eyes suddenly huge and round and a little bit wounded. >>Kate, you could have talked to me. I know I work here, but I am your friend.<<

I took a deep breath, suddenly ashamed of my lack of faith in her. >>I couldn't talk to you, especially not about stuff with the Hütters, because I was terrified it would just go straight back to Florian.<<

Biting her lip, Müller shook her head, looking more than slightly guilty herself. >>I wouldn't have told him that stuff. Honestly, I would not. And I swear to god, I won't tell him about any of this. At least now I understand why you wouldn't go to that party. I honestly thought you just didn’t want to be seen with me, and I was a little hurt. But I am sorry I doubted you now.<<

>>Its OK.<< Turning back to the computer, I shrugged towards the screen. >>It doesn't fucking matter now. The entire online Kraftwerk community has probably seen what this little shit has written now. And what did I do to deserve this? I was lonely, I was vulnerable, this entitled little child throws herself at me like a ton of bricks, and I... I was stupid enough to respond, because I was flattered, and I was lonely.<< 

>>Christ, Kate, this is a mess. I mean, you're supposed to be the adult here.<<

>>I know; I was trying to be. She used to come to my house, you know, and sit on the doorstep until I came out...<< 

>>Why didn't you tell anyone?<< demanded Müller.

>>Look, I was scared! I was terrified that she was going to go telling tales back to her mother. You saw how Günter and Gudrun reacted when it came out – I thought if Jutta found out about me and Ralf, I’d be sacked from my job! So I started having to lie to Katrin, because I was sleeping with her father. And before I knew it, I was lying to everyone. I was scared, lonely, vulnerable...< 

>>But you know this is what this kid is saying. She's saying that she was lonely, and vulnerable, and that you took advantage of her, that you flattered her into a friendship, because you wanted to sleep with her father.<< She paused, staring at me like she was trying to figure something out. >>How long _have_ you been sleeping with Ralf? Was this going on, as far back as Mexico? <<

>>No<< I sighed. >>We came pretty close, in Santiago, but you interrupted us.<< 

>>I knew it<< she muttered, shaking her head.

>>I mean, yeah, you can say we were definitely having an emotional affair at that point. We were sleeping together, but we weren't fucking. We didn't start having sex until I came back from Christmas break. January, when I came back from England.<< 

>>And when did you meet Katrin? You didn't start asking about her, until after Graciella visited.<<

>>February<< I confessed. >>She interrupted one of our rendezvous with a phone call, and Daddy had to go and rescue her.<< 

>>Are you still in contact with her?<<

>>No of course not<< I snapped. >>I ended the association nearly two months ago, shortly after her little blackmail attempt. You notice that she doesn't even mention how she tried to blackmail me over the affair when she found out! Painting herself as this innocent little victim, when she was the one who deliberately tried to blow it up. Ralf came clean to Jutta and Katrin, both of them, about the affair. It was a mess; Ralf handled it really badly. Katrin threw a total hissy fit at me online - understandably, I guess - and I told her I didn't think it would be appropriate for us to keep in contact. I've blocked her online since then, but...<< 

>>What does she mean by this, though?<< asked Müller, paging back until she found the line she was looking for. "Stuff kept happening even after she told me 'you cannot talk to me any more!'"

"Stuff kept happening?" I almost exploded. >>She means... she kept _doing_ stuff. She kept watching my blog, reading things that I had posted online, trying to leave comments and send me messages, even joking that I would probably delete them. I told her there would be no more contact after Ralf told his wife. And that was literally the weekend that Graciella left. I have not talked to her since then. But you see how she twists every little thing I say or do online, into being all about her? << 

>>But Graciella left over a month ago<< pointed out Müller. >>Why's she suddenly launching this massive tirade against you now?<<

>>I don't know...<< I took the computer back from her and started to re-read the rant. It went on and on at such a fever pitch for so long, that it was hard to actually follow it. >>Wait, at the beginning, when she says, what does she mean by this... "and now i see her playing the same tricks with another innocent person, well, as the song goes 'Es ist Zeit, dass diese ganze Geschichte herauskam!'" What's she referring to there? That's a song lyric, isn't it? It's Durchaus! isn't it? _'It's time that this whole story came out...'_ Always loved that song. <<

As she sang to herself in German about what the Communists had done to Berlin, I paged down, until I hit a long passage where she accused me of 'pretending to like' bands I had been listening to longer than she had been alive, in order to try and make friends with her. Just after that was another strange, cryptic reference. 

> 'it's patently embarrassing, a woman of her age listening to *my* music, edging in on my fandoms and my territory. but worst of all, she writes shit about musicians, then tries to actually speak to them, as if she had never written such blatantly disgusting things about them without their consent. she did this to my father, and now i see her doing it again, to one of my favourite musicians for about 5 years now. i'm scared for him. really scared. i don't want to have to be so scared for a man i love.'

>>That's it<< gasped Müller, tapping the screen.

>>What's it? She's saying I'm writing shit about musicians, what, because I review them? Positively and negatively? This is what winds me up about her. She writes reviews of the Krefeld scene that are basically little more than her lauding her friends and ripping the piss out of scenesters she doesn't like. But that's Katrin, I've realised, reading this. Every single thing that she accuses other people of; that is the exact shit she is doing herself. She is a master of projection. Have you noticed, she is never, ever responsible for anything she does, this child. "Stuff kept happening" rather than admitting _she_ was doing the stuff. It's all other people, doing stuff to her. I mean, look at her blog, it is a steady stream of shit-taking and calling out stuff she claims other people do to her, then she freaks out if I write something vague on Twitter that could even possibly be construed to be about her... <<

But Müller took me literally, taking the laptop and typing in the first few letters into the history bar, so that Katrin's blog loaded again. >>No, no<< she said. >>I've just realised something. At the top of her blog, in the bio where she lists the fandoms she's into, I'm pretty sure it said 'My Chemical Romance, Nirvana, Durchaus!, Karl Kotzübel.' If she's a fan - a huge fan, if she's listing him in her favourite fandoms - she's gotta be following him on Twitter. In which case, she has seen him tweeting at you and flirting with you.<<

>>He does not flirt with me. Ralf says the same thing, and it’s absurd.<< 

Müller levelled her gaze at me. >>Here we go, to Berlin City, to meet Karl Kotzübel...? I follow you both. You two flirt.<<

>>You think that’s flirting?<< I asked, confused, then realised that if Müller had read it that way, who knew what Katrin had read into it. 

>>But that's it<< pointed out Müller. >>It's not about you and her Dad. I bet she's one of those Durchfrauleins that tweets at him every day, bakes him cupcakes on his birthday and shit. If she's spent the past few months trying desperately to get his attention on Twitter, and he's ignored her... only to have him suddenly start following you, and very publicly tweeting at you...<<

I swallowed nervously. >>He didn't just tweet at me. We met up in Berlin. He posted a photo of himself with Ralf. She had to have guessed it was me who introduced them. Oh god, he thanked me afterwards, in a way that probably looked... But he’s not flirting. He’s just _like_ that. You know that smooth Berlin charm. But god knows how it looked. <<

>>Oh, holy shit, the jealous monster of fangirl anger that would provoke... I mean, you've seen how fangirls react if Justin Bieber or any of One Dimension talk to a girl on Twitter? This is exactly the same thing.<< 

I stared at Müller, suddenly remembering the first time I'd looked at Katrin's twitter. She had been following a bunch of punk bands and emo dudes. I hadn't known who Karl Kotzübel was at that point, but I would put money on the fact that he had been one of the tousle-haired, mascara smeared emo dudes she had followed. >>You are fucking kidding me<< I sighed. >>This isn't about anything I did, is it? It's about her being a green-eyed monster of jealousy because this Kotzübel guy paid attention to me on social media.<<

>>I'd put money on it<< said Müller, scrolling down Katrin's blog. But something was different from a few minutes ago... >>Oh shit<< swore Müller. >>I see what you mean, now, about this kid being a massive attention pest.<<

>>What is it?<< I asked, feeling that awful churning feeling rebooting in the bottom of my stomach. At the top of Katrin's blog was a new post, a reblog of that whole insane ranting screed, with new words added in all caps.

> ARE YOU GOING TO RESPOND TO THIS KATE? I CAN SEE YOU LOOKING AT IT. I KNOW YOUR IP ADDRESS. I KNOW YOU HAVE READ IT. NOW I'VE GOT YOUR ATTENTION, ARE YOU GOING TO RESPOND TO THIS. ARE YOU.


	26. Fixation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Technical whizz and internet expert Müller comes to the rescue, trying to get to the bottom of Katrin's awful doxxing blog, both technically and psychologically. But they soon realise that they need to consult a higher authority to fix the problem: Papa.

As I stared, dumbfounded, at Katrin’s message filling my screen, Müller leapt to action.

>>Don't you dare respond to that!<< I snapped. >>Me responding is exactly what she wants! Every time I responded to her antics in any way, she just upped the ante.<<

>>I'm not responding<< said Müller sensibly. >>I'm screen-grabbing it. I'm screen grabbing this whole damn piece of garbage, because you are going to need a record of this.<<

As I sat, chewing my nails nervously, Müller carefully saved the whole screed, which took about 6 screenshots. Had I been alone, I might have been terrified, but I felt so much more reassured by how professional, how thorough, and how absolutely technical-minded she was being about it. 

>>How does she have my IP address?<< I asked, wondering how Katrin had known that I was looking at her site.

>>Easiest piece of site software in the world to install. You can get it with a basic plug-in hit counter<< shrugged Müller.

>>Yeah, but how does she know it’s me, and not just anyone at Klingklang – it could be her Dad, after all.<<

>>Nah, we use static IP here – helps for the version control on the music library we use. Makes it easier to track who’s got what files checked out<< said Müller sensibly.

>>So she actually knows that I have not been looking at her blog.<< I mused.

>>What’s creepy to me, though, is why she would advertise that she knew your IP. It’s easy enough for me to change that. I’ll set you up with a VPN now. We’ve got a French one, so Hütter can unlock regional Tour de France content. Stupid of her to tell us, though.<<

Something clicked in the back of my head, and made sense for the first time. >>It’s just like Karl, in Berlin. Where it wasn’t enough for him, just to have a private drink with Ralf Hütter. He wanted to be seen, on the internet, having a private drink with Ralf. It’s the same thing with Katrin. It’s not enough that she wants to creep on me online. She wants to be seen – she wants me to _know_ – that she is creeping on me online. I don’t know if it’s insecurity or narcissism or what. With Karl... I guess I can understand these days, on the internet, it’s ‘pics or it didn’t happen’. But with Katrin, it’s like... there’s this deep core of narcissism, some kind of display of power or control. She wants me to know that there is no boundary that I can set, that she can’t just blow right through. As if she just doesn’t understand that her inability to honour a personal boundary is exactly why I didn’t want her in my life in the first place. << 

>>I guess that makes sense<< said Müller, as she continued to screengrab and download. >>A creepy kind of sense, but... it’s logically consistent. She’s that desperate for any kind of attention from you. If she can’t have you admire her, she’ll settle for having you be scared of her. Because this stuff I’m reading is nuts. This kid is so hung up on you. To the point of being de-LU-sional. Absolutely bonkers. But I can’t believe she actually believes half this stuff. It’s like she’s playing it out as some kind of performance for the Internet.<<

>>I know<< I repeated limply, feeling very grateful for Müller's whizz-kid IT acumen as she worked out how to download my whole message folder on Tumblr in a single flat file. >>It just feels so unreal. It is unreal! It’s like... if she can’t control me, she wants to try to control other people’s perceptions of me, even if she has to lie so blatantly to do it.<< 

Müller, however, probed the matter with the discernment of a surgeon incising a tumour. >>You know, I'm looking at the last messages you sent her, where you kept telling her to take responsibility for her own emotions, where you keep telling her to work through her feelings about her family in fiction... and the difference in tone between that her whole... THIS NASTY WOMAN I WAS OBSESSED WITH STALKING HAS CAST A SPELL ON ME TO FORCE ME TO HAVE FEELINGS ARGH. How are you responsible for her feelings about her mother? I don't get it.<<

>>I get the feeling from Ralf that that child has hated her mother for some time. And I just happened to come along and be approximately the right size and shape, and so she projected all of that shit onto me.<<

>>Do I even want to know what the Twitter thing is about? Like she is saying here, that you constantly used Twitter to send her subliminal messages and subtweets and things - "practically tagging her' - isn't the whole point of Twitter that you can actually literally tag the people you're talking to? I mean, Graciella has been following you for weeks on there, and she would read me the funny tweets you sent her sometimes, but she never said anything about you mentioning Katrin.<<

>>That's the insane part<< I sighed, realising just how _verrückt_ this sounded to an outsider.  >>I once - ONCE - tweeted something about 'argh this crazy teenager has just liked 30 of my posts in a row'. And from then on, every single tweet I made, was suddenly about her. Any random bad day 'fuck this dumb bitch' tweet because a cyclist cut me off in traffic was about her. Tweets about the British political situation were about her. Tweets I would tag for Graciella about random shit Germans do were aaaaaaalll about Katrin. Because literally, every single thing I have literally ever posted to the internet since 1994 is somehow, mysteriously all about Katrin fucking Hütter now.<<

Müller clicked through more pages, followed links, squinted at the screen. >>Hmmm, I just bet that... hang on... Oh yes. Here we go. Archive view. Let’s just look and... Yes. If I were a betting woman, I would have put money on this, and I would be wealthy. Going back and looking through her blog and her twitter for the past few weeks, this is nothing but a steady stream of subtweeting and blogging that is totally and unsubtly directed at you.<< She started paging backwards through the blog and sniggering to herself. >>Paging Dr Freud, classic case. This kid projects so much Falk could use her to power the entire 3D system.<<

>>I wouldn't know<< I snorted a little defensively. >>I have absolutely no idea, because I have not looked at her accounts since... since Florian’s birthday. I looked, once, because I wanted to know if it was safe to go back to that party, and nope, the answer was it really was fucking not. Since then, I have not so much as glanced. And that, I bet, is the problem. That I haven't looked. Like I said, she would know that if she tracks IP addresses. She would know, and be upset that I have got on with a life that doesn't have Katrin in it.<< I sighed.

>>Wow, yeah, because these posts for the past few weeks... holy shit, she has not let go of you. Like, seriously, did you know she has a little pet name for you and everything... aw, hell. There are dozens of posts on her blog on this little tag she has for you... Meine Feindin. That would almost be cute if it wasn’t so fucking creepy.<<

>>I don't want to know. Quit it; I don't want to see, Müller.<< I pushed the laptop away, but Müller kept screengrabbing. >>I guess this is my fault. I mean, I did encourage her to write. But I did not say write a whole stream of fiction, and claim it is ~the truuuuuuuth~ about me.<< 

Müller was giggling now, like she was almost enjoying this. >>Wow, this is amazing, on a forensic-investigation level. I always used to be fascinated, watching that program Catfish, how people got trapped inside these imaginary worlds. But the things is, she’s doing it to herself. That’s what’s so fucked-up about this situation. I honestly can’t figure out if she’s blatantly lying, for attention, or she has actually come to believe the fantasies that she is spinning out here. Like, I don’t know which option is worse. If she’s lying her head off and knows it. Or if she’s creating this bizarre online fantasy world, and genuinely believes it’s you spinning it, not her. Hang on<< She flicked through her tabs, back onto the latest update. >>I’m not sure I understand this stuff about 'mind games' though, because honestly, she’s the one playing mind games... But, in the seven-page rant, she says you tried to mess with her mind, for example, that when she said she had Asperger's, you tried to fuck with her by claiming, 'I'm an Aspie toooo!' Hang on, wait. Is she trying to criticise you for using the term "Aspie"? I swear, I just saw her using it on her own blog... Or is she trying to insinuate that you were lying about having it?<<

>>I did not make it up. I have Asperger's. Why would I make something like that up? That makes no sense. It was a thing we had in common; we just talked about it. And as for the term "Aspie", that's how I describe myself.<< 

Now Müller was staring at me, like something had finally clicked into place. >>What did you score?<< she asked.

>>What did I score on what?<< I asked, confused.

>>The Autism-Spectrum Quotient Test. We passed around the online test in here one day, as a lark. Günter found it on a website, and we all took it for a joke. Everyone in Klingklang scored really high. Well, Gudrun got a 25 and Fritz got a 27, which are both borderline. The rest of us - me, Henning, Falk, Rudi and Robbo - we're all in the 30s and 40s. This is the most Asperger’s workplace in Germany. This is why it’s such a nice place to work – everything is sound-isolated. There is not one thing that squeaks or rattles or hums here, to irritate an Aspie.<< She nodded proudly, but then her lips drew back in a wicked grin. >>We wanted to make Ralf take the test, see if he got a perfect 50, but none of us dared ask. Have you taken this test?<<

>>When I did it online, I think I got a 42<< I confessed, and Müller whooped, slapping me a high five.

>>41\. You’re one higher than me!<<

But her fizzy good mood could not hold me for long. >>This is what pisses me off. Klingklang is like an oasis of Asperger's in a neurotypical world. It's one of the few places where I don't feel like a freak. I think Ralf, whether he realises it or not, has assembled it that way, by design. Because it's legitimately and genuinely difficult, trying to function as an Aspie in a world that is not designed for you, and does not even have consideration for your needs. But someone like Katrin, she just uses it as an excuse for her shitty, over-entitled, overindulged spoiled brat behaviour. Having Asperger's means that you struggle with social cues and social context. It does not give you carte blanche to stalk people and accuse them of forcing you to, because you have an weird fixation on them. And the fact that some people do discriminate against autistic people does not mean it's an outrage for someone to legitimately just not want to continue being their friend after they tried to blackmail you...<<

>>Hang on, hang on. What? Blackmail?<< interrupted Müller.

>>Oh yes, blackmail<< I said. >>She was the one who discovered our affair... found out about Ralf and me. And she tried to blackmail me! Threatening to tell her mother if I didn’t tell her what Ralf’s and my plans were, when I didn’t even know myself...<< 

>>Holy shit<< said Müller, looking not so much shocked, as deeply puzzled.

>>Like, I'm not even sure what she wanted, or what she was trying to achieve, aside from making Katrin fucking Hütter the centre of everyone's attention and... Christ. God forbid that anyone should say no to her, in any way, shape or form, like this kid has never been set a boundary in her life, so for someone to actually say _no_ to her, she starts screaming 'emotional abuse'. << The shock and denial had started to lift, and I was definitely into angry mode.

But Müller’s face changed, because slightly more awkward. >>You don't know what Katrin has gone through. You really don't. She has always been a weird kid, and her family is... well, you know what they’re like. True, this blog... this blog is like, off the scale in terms of 'cry for help' or 'cry for attention' or whatever the point of this actually is. I can't imagine what it's like to be the focus of something like this... well, actually, I kinda can. I was the only lesbian in a Catholic school, and an awkward kid with no social skills, to boot. So I do know exactly what it's like to be the subject of malicious rumours.<< For a single moment only, a sliver of pain showed through Müller's cockiness, but then it passed. >>I’m not saying, feel sorry for the kid, when she’s acted so appallingly. There’s no excuse for this. But I’m always interested in... you know, trying to understand. Even as I’m marvelling at how awful it is, there’s a big part of me that just wants to know... _why_. <<

I bit my lip, feeling reprimanded. >>At this point, Müller, I don’t really want to understand or know why. I just want it to _stop_. <<

Müller’s expression changed again, as she leaned away from the computer and towards me, patting my hand reassuringly. >>Listen. We're going to get to the bottom of this. We're gonna... we’re gonna... sort it... do something...<<

>>Do what?<< I demanded, my energy drained, just feeling tired and old and exhausted, throwing up my hands in defeat. >>I don't even know what to do about this.<< 

Müller looked back and forth between me and the computer. >>We are going to get this taken down. If we have to go to her father to do it.<<

I glanced back up at her in horror. >>We can't tell Ralf.<<

>>Why not?<< shrugged Müller. >>He's her father.<<

>>That's precisely why you can't show him this. It would _kill_ him. <<

But Müller was already sending the files to the printer on the corner of my desk, as I could hear it whir back to life. >>He needs to know what kind of shit she has been getting up to. Christ, I mean, this shit is so fucked up, she's lucky we're just going to her father, and not the police... and if her father won't do something about it, we are going to the police, trust me.<<

I stared back at her, my eyes pleading, knowing that just seeing this would break his heart. He still thought of Katrin as a little girl that needed protecting from the world. Not someone that his lover might need to be protected from. And for the first time, I realised, that if Ralf really were pressed to choose between his daughter and his lover, I did not think that he would choose me. >>But not while the Belgians are here<< I protested.

>>The Belgians went home half an hour ago. That's why I brought the discs back up to the safe. Come on.<< Opening the door, she stuck her head out into the corridor. >>He's in his office. I can see him on the computer. Grab those print-outs and come.<< 

Had Müller not been with me, I do not think I would have had the courage to take that short walk down the hall. I don't know what I would have done. There was a very good chance I would have slunk out of Klingklang, never to return. But Müller practically twisted my arm and frog-marched me down the hall.

I will never forget Ralf's face as Müller laid the print-outs of the blog post before him. Disbelief and shock, followed by cold fury, followed closely by fear, and then an awful, hollow-looking kind of helplessness. >>What is this?<< he asked. 

>>This is what your daughter chose to write about me, on her public blog<< I said, feeling very dead inside.

Ralf did not ask if it was true. He looked down at the paper, then back up at me, then down at the paper. >>I don't understand<< he said, in a very small voice.

>>None of it is true<< said Müller, pulling out the print-outs of my emails from underneath it. >>Your daughter is lying about all of this. These are the actual emails that Kate sent her. You can see how she's edited and manipulated them to fit her twisted view of events.<<

Picking them up limply, Ralf barely glanced at them, letting them fall back to his desk as he put his hands to his face and rubbed his eyes. >>How long were you... no, I suppose I did encourage you to be friends. I thought it would be good for Katrin to have an older role model. But this... this...<< He pushed the print-outs away as if he did not want to acknowledge their existence.

>>Ralf, listen to me<< insisted Müller, though I felt myself back away, to lean against the door I had closed behind me. How many times had I closed this door behind me so that we could have illicit sex? >>Your daughter is out of control. She has done an absolutely appalling thing. You do understand that she has been internet-stalking Kate, doxing her - that means posting her real name and contact details to the internet - and editing her words to make it look like she said and did things she never did. To make it look as if she behaved in a bad - borderline criminal - way, when she did nothing of the sort. It's all lies. Deliberate lies, for attention, or revenge, or something. You have got to speak to her about this. Take away her Tumblr, take away her laptop, her iPhone. She needs help.<<

Ralf shook his head slowly, as if unable to process what he was hearing. >>Don't ask me to do this. I cannot do this. Please do not ask me to take sides. I can't take sides. I will not take sides.<<

I stared at him, feeling a dull thudding weight in my chest. Something told me I had known this all along; that this was what would break us. My voice sounded dead in my throat. >>When someone tells you that they will not take sides, it means they've already chosen a side, and it's not yours.<<

>>Kate, please...<< My real name. Now, he chose to remember my real name? As he looked away, he looked suddenly very old, and very tired, but the eyes that could not look up to meet mine were still those of a little boy.

>>I need to go<< I said, and started to stumble backwards out of the room, grasping for the door handle.

>>Read those<< hissed Müller, pointing at the papers she had left on Ralf's desk, but as she turned towards me, my phone started to ring in my bag. Not the Klingklang phone that Ralf paid for, but my own, personal iPhone.

I took it out, only to see the caller was 'Karlheinz - Berger Allee landline'. Karlheinz never called me, he usually left notes on the kitchen table, or emailed if it was really important. Although I didn't want to take a phone call at that awkward moment in time, it seemed so unusual for him to call that I figured it was important. >>Hallo, Karlheinz.<<

>>Kate! I am sorry to trouble you at work.<<

>>It's OK, but I can not talk long.<<

>>Alight, alright, I will make it quick. There is a girl here, looking for you.<<

>>A girl<< I said, feeling that awful swirling feeling in the bottom of my stomach. >>What kind of a girl?<<

>>A schoolgirl, maybe 15, 16? A pretty young girl, with bright red hair like yours. She has been ringing all of the bells in the building, asking for Kate. I told her that Kate would not be at home for quite some time, maybe until the evening.<< As soon as he said it, I felt a lurch in my chest. So now she didn't just know vaguely where I lived, but what flat, too. >>She says that is alright, that she will wait. So she sits down on the bench across the road, staring at the house. I thought this was very strange, so maybe it is important, maybe I should tell you she is here. Is she some relative of yours, perhaps? I did not know you had relatives in Germany.<<

>>Is she still there?<< I asked.

>>Hang on, I will go to the window.<< There was about a minute of shuffling noises as Karlheinz walked across the room. 

Holding my hand over the receiver, I hissed at Ralf and Müller. >>She's at my house again.<<

>>Who?<<

>>Katrin.<<

>>That is impossible<< said Ralf. >>She is at Gymnasium.<<

There was a vague thud on the other side as Karlheinz picked up the phone again. >>Hallo, hallo. Yes, she is still sitting there. I see she has got a drink from the cafe now.<<

>>Hang on a minute, Karlheinz<< I said to the phone, then turned to Ralf. >>Ralf, _locate_ her. On the mobile phone service. <<

Ralf shrugged and brought up his browser - it was already one of his most-used sites, without even having to type in the URL. But when he clicked on it, a bright green dot appeared, and the map slowly filled in the countryside surrounding Klingklang around it. >>Oh. Sorry, no, that is the wrong Katrin. Let me select Katrin 1, not Katrin 2.<<

But as I stared at the screen, I realised he had not typed a thing. So it loaded automatically, displaying my location? How often did he check up on me? But he typed in 'Katrin 1' and the map jerked to the right, sliding across the Rhine to rest in the Altstadt, before zooming in on the castle across the street from where I lived.

Putting his head into his hands, Ralf rubbed his eyes dejectedly. >>I suppose I will have to go and get her.<< As he looked up, he seemed a broken man. >>Can you tell Karlheinz to keep her there?<<

>>Hi, Karlheinz<< I said to the phone, wondering if he had heard Ralf. >>Can you please go downstairs and get her, and keep her at the flat? I don't know. Offer to give her ice cream and cake. Tell her I will be there soon if she waits, but she has to wait at the flat. Do not let her leave until Ralf gets there..<<

>>Ralf?<< asked Karlheinz, a little confused. >>Your boss?<<

>>That's Ralf's daughter<< I tried to explain. >>Don't tell her that he is coming, though. Tell her that I have agreed to speak to her, and I will come, if she waits upstairs. This is important, Karlheinz. Don’t let her go.<<

>>OK, will do<< said Karlheinz, and we rung off.

Ralf and I stared at each other across his desk, as he stood up. >>Are you coming with me?<<

>>Under the circumstances, I think that's an extremely bad idea. She will stay there if she thinks I'm coming home, but...<< My voice trailed off, as I realised I was suddenly afraid. Not even of anything specific, of Katrin showing up at my house and murdering me in my bed, but just an all-encompassing, omnipresent anxiety, chewing away at the lining of my stomach. >>I don't want to be there, when... when...<<

>>I understand<< said Ralf, and though he was very obviously trying to maintain an aura of calm assurance, his voice cracked slightly.

>>Take my keys<< I offered, digging in my pockets. >>Don't ring the doorbell and give her a chance to run off. Use my keys, and then... I dunno. Leave them with Karlheinz and I'll pick them up when I...<< But anxiety tugged at me as soon as I started to even think about going anywhere near somewhere Katrin might be.

>>You can't go back there<< said Müller. >>You need to come and stay at my apartment tonight.<<

>>I can't just...<< I tried to protest, but Ralf cut me off.

>>Yes. I agree. Both of you should go... we have finished with the Belgians, so you are free to go home for the day, too, Müller.<< 

>>I think we need more than the rest of the day. Both of us are going to be working from home - my home - until this mess is resolved.<< Müller looked at me very pointedly. >>Take what you need, but we are not coming back in until this is sorted.<<

>>That's a bit of an overreaction, isn't it?<< I stuttered, trying to think how on earth I would get my clothes, my things.

>>Kate, she knows where you live. She knows where you work. You need to be in neither of those places<< insisted Müller, who was really quite a bit intimidating when she was riled up. I was glad she was on my side, though Ralf seemed to be prevaricating.

>>Stop talking about her as if she is some kind of criminal. She is my daughter<< he protested, his eyes growing slightly liquid.

>>Read it<< said Müller, picking the printed out blog off his desk and thrusting it at him. >>Just read what she has done. If we're talking about her like she's a criminal, it's because she is _acting_ like a criminal. This is stalking, Ralf. Criminal stalking, with a side order of harassment and libel. <<

Ralf turned to look at me one last time. Seeing the distress in his face, the edge of tears in his eyes, I realised that this was a door, that once we stepped through it, we could never go back. He moved towards me, I don't know what for, a kiss, an embrace, even just a kind word. But I stood there, frozen, feeling the anxiety chewing at the bottom of my stomach, and made no move towards him. I glanced sideways at Müller as some kind of excuse, but even had she not been there, I knew that I would have acted no differently. He tilted his head to one side, scanning my face for some response, but I could no longer meet his eyes. He looked so small; that neat, compact body that had formerly brought me so much joy suddenly looked so fragile. I felt that if I touched him, he would fall to pieces. Or maybe it was me that would shatter.

He shrugged lightly with his slim shoulders, then seized the black zip-up anorak that used to be mine, and was gone.


	27. Detox

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katrin T goes into hiding, off the internet and away from Klingklang. And in the midst of this unplanned Digital Detox, she realises both why she and Ralf slid into the affair in the first place, and why she has to end it.

I seemed to be on autopilot as I returned to my office with Müller, and packed up my things, slipping my laptop and my notes from into my backpack. We went down to the parking lot, unchained our bicycles, and I followed her silently across the Oberkasseler Bridge, turning a different way than I was used to, towards the North of the city.

As we rode, I realised I had never actually been to Müller's place before. She lived in a fairly anonymous post-war apartment block, just off a main avenue. >>I hope you don't mind stairs<< she warned, a little apologetically, as we locked our cycles downstairs. I shrugged and said I was used to it, then groaned as I realised that she lived all the way up in the attic, six floors up. Her apartment was a single long, low room with sloping ceilings, lit by skylights. At one end, there was a small kitchenette area with a large glass door opening onto a tiny balcony, with a miniscule bathroom just off the landing, but the rest of it was just one giant open space.

>>You can sleep here<< she offered, patting a large, sagging sofa. >>It does actually fold out into a bed. Let me dig you out a sleeping bag...<< Kneeling down, she opened one of the cupboards that fringed both sides of the room, and started to rummage through piles of electronic junk.

I sat down on the sagging sofa and looked about me, trying to defuse my sense of shock by reading the yellowing newspapers and posters and scrapbooky bits of paper that had been stuck all over the sloping walls, synthesiser schematics and reviews of gigs all mixed in with travel photos and snapshots of her and various friends.

>>You used to be in a band<< I noted, realising this from the photo accompanying what looked like a newspaper review.

>>Yeah<< said Müller, emerging from the tunnel-like cupboard, holding tightly-rolled bedding. >>I played synth in the coolest all-girl band in the Rhineland, about ten years ago. Here's the sleeping bag. I promise it's clean. And I guess if you needed something more your size to sleep in, you might find something in here?<<

She passed me a plastic bag full of odds and ends of clothing, a kaftan, an oversized Indigo Girls T-shirt, a voluminous dress. >>Don't even try to tell me this is yours<< I laughed, pulling out an oversized pair of harem pants.

>>Ex-girlfriend<< shrugged Müller, pulling out her vape-stick. >>Ran off to Goa with a yoga instructor. Never came back for her things.<<

>>I have the feeling that you lived two or three whole lives before you even arrived at Klingklang...<<

>>Haven't we all<< cackled Müller, pulling out a laptop and fiddling with it. >>Oh yeah, you want WLAN? Here's the details.<< She tossed me over a print-out.

>>Erm... I think I might actually do a bit of a digital detox<< I said sheepishly, realising that I couldn't even face logging onto my laptop again. 

>>Wowee, I do not blame you. There is some more shit that has gone up on this chick's Tumblr since she's been waiting.<< Müller called out in a sing-song voice. >>These Asks... whoa. I wonder if these are for real, or if she's writing them in her own Ask-box.<<

>>Müller, can you not...<< I sputtered, feeling my heart starting to pound in my throat again, a purely panic reaction.

>>I'm just getting screen grabs of everything. You are going to need this for evidence<< she insisted, though I swear to god, she looked like she was almost enjoying sleuthing out this stuff. >>Don't worry, I'm using a VPN that routes my IP address through the States, so there's no way she'll ever trace it back to you.<<

>>Look, I appreciate you doing this, but... how about you play me some of your old band?<< I asked, changing the subject, as I couldn't bear to think about what was happening across town or on the internet.

>>Yeah, sure... if you like. Well! I'll trade you. I'll play you some of mine if I can hear your old band<< she offered.

>>How do you know I was even in a band?<<

>>Stalky McStalkface found it, remember? Oh hey, she's even found your old MySpace. Now _that_ is ancient history. <<

>>Müller<< I said sharply, and she shrugged and picked up a remote, flicking on her stereo before cueing up some music in iTunes.

I sat back down on the saggy sofa that was my new home, and stared up at the pitched ceiling while trying to let the music wash over me. Really, it was pretty good, not a million miles from my own former band, though their style was a little less pop and a little more hard rock, albeit with the occasional synthesiser flourishes that sounded too much like Müller to be anyone else. But my mind just would not stay on the music. My thoughts whirled about my head like dried autumn leaves caught in a wind, but kept dragging back constantly to Ralf, and then inevitably back to Katrin.

Over and over, I kept replaying every conversation, every email exchange. When the mental pressure grew too much, I even gave up and logged back onto my phone, to check that the emails were the way that I remembered them, not the twisted way that she had represented them. But my brain was like a dog with a squeaky toy, constantly coming back to the same single subject, trying to work out how I could have had those conversations in a way that might have had a different outcome.

I should have been more firm. I should have blocked her much sooner, as soon as I started to feel uncomfortable. Hell, I knew, right from the start, I should never have replied to that first email. What had I been thinking? Well, I hadn't been thinking; I had just been flattered.

Really, it was Ralf's fault. He should never have introduced us in the first place. But no. I couldn't even blame him for that. I shouldn't have been in his car. I should have got the tram home, and refused to meet his family. But then again, if I was going to start playing at that kind of revisionist history, I should never have been _with_ Ralf in the first place.

Oh no. Oh no, I couldn't start thinking like that. I wouldn't trade those few sweet months in love with Ralf for anything in the world. But how was I already starting to think of Ralf in the past tense?

A sudden stab of anguish passed through me like the pain of a missing limb. Ralf. How on earth could I even think of ending things with Ralf? The rational part of my head knew with absolute certainty, that we _had_ to end it. His daughter was stalking me. This was not something we could come back from, or even try to pretend away. Relationships didn't survive something like that.

Sudden anger shook me. Selfishly, I abruptly started to demand of myself, or the universe, or some impartial judge, why it was that I had to give up something I had loved and enjoyed, because of this shitty little teenager? But the answer echoed back across my brain just a moment later. Something had gone very wrong in Ralf's family, and I knew without even rationalising it, that it had gone wrong some time before I had ever appeared on the scene. Ralf's affair with me, Katrin's weird obsession, these things, I deeply suspected, were symptoms, and not the cause. If anything, the more I saw of Katrin's off-the-wall behaviour, the more I suspected that Ralf had really just been using me as a way of avoiding the problems at home.

Oh Christ, I had been so dumb. It was staring me in the face the whole time. The way he had texted me right through that horrible ill-fated cruise to the Seychelles. It wasn't because he loved me so deeply. It was because he desperately wanted to be anywhere but on that ship with his wife. He was using me to avoid the breakdown of communication in his family. When he said he wanted to be with me forever, it was not that he wanted to marry me. It was that he wanted to be out of his _own_ family. I wasn't his great love affair; I was just an exit strategy. And Katrin had known it, even if I hadn't.

>>Are you alright?<< asked Müller abruptly, breaking my concentration.

I looked up startled, realising that I had tears in my eyes. >>No, I am not alright<< I confessed. >>I have been such a fool. Such a fucking fool over Ralf.<<

>>Oh boy<< sighed Müller. >>I wasn't going to try to tell you that, but I am glad you have come to that conclusion on your own...<< Abruptly, she changed tack. >>Fuck. I have watched enough British dramas to know that this is the point in the emotional crisis where I am supposed to offer you some tea, but I don't have any English tea. Shall we just skip straight to Graciella's bottle of tequila?<<

>>Ja<< I agreed. >>You are going to have to take my phone from me, so I don't drink and dial, but I think I could do with a stiff drink.<<

>>Hand it over<< said Müller, and pocketed it, before walking to the kitchen area to fetch a bottle of potent-looking booze and two mismatched shot glasses.

>>I'm an idiot<< I said, as I clinked glasses with her.

>Well, yes<< agreed Müller. >>But you're in love, aren't you. Love makes fools of us all.<<

>>I _was_ in love << I confessed, then realised I had used the past tense again. Was it so easy to fall out of love? Another twinge in my chest... well, no, less like a twinge and more like a great wave of anguish that felt like some organ was becoming physically detached from inside me. >>Maybe I still am? I don't know.<< I nursed my tequila, but realised I didn't actually want to get drunk, either.

>>I warned you, it was a bad idea, getting involved with a married man. I did warn you.<<

>>You did, and if this is the place where you want to say 'I told you so' then just go ahead and get it out of your system.<< I stared down at the tequila, rolling it about in the shot-glass. >>I can't do this any more. I don't want to end it, and it hurts like hell to end it... but it will hurt way worse if I don't.<<

>>But what if... and I am only playing Devil's Advocate here... what if he comes back, and he says 'I'm done'.<<

>>I'm sure he is done. I wouldn't stay with someone who had just exposed my beloved daughter as a complete nutjob.<<

>>No<< protested Müller, rolling over on her side to pour herself another shot of tequila. >>What if he comes back, and he says 'my marriage is done.' He is pretty _into_ you. <<

I shook my head, then took a leap and voiced my fears. >>I don’t think he is. I don’t think he does love me, really. I think he’s in love with the idea of being a single man again. A man who doesn’t have a family, especially not a family as crazy as Katrin and Jutta.<<

But Müller looked at me long and hard. >>I think you’re wrong. And this is not just me saying this; stupid, emotionally incompetent me – this is what Graciella thought, and she is a much wiser woman than any of us. I think he does love you, in his own way. Hütter’s a weirdo, but I have never seen him act with anyone else, the way he acts with you. So what if he decides to make good on that. What if his daughter's mad ranting has put the idea in his head, and he decides that he is leaving Jutta for you.<<

I stared at her, even as I tried to force the tequila down my gullet. It made me feel vaguely sick, so that I didn't even want to finish the first glass, let alone have another. But then I realised that wasn't even the drink. I felt _sick_.  >>I would lose all respect for him<< I said, very slowly.

>>Why?<<

>>Because it would mean he was running away.<< I stared at her as I realised how strongly I meant it. >>It would mean he was a coward. And Hütter is many things - foolhardy, pig-headed, inflexible - but I do not actually think he is a coward.<<

Müller shrugged and waved the tequila bottle over my nearly empty glass, but I shook my head and held my hand over it.

>>He said something to me a while ago, and I didn't think much on it at the time, but I've just realised something.<<

>>What? What did he say?<<

>>He said 'Sometimes I think I am only here to be a father to you, in ways that your own father wasn't.'<< 

>>Ugh, OK, I know heterosexuality is weird, but that is fucking creepy, OK?<<

I shook my head slowly. >>It's not that creepy, but I do think it's the most emotionally astute thing he ever said to me. Because you know what? He is not my father. He can never make up for all the ways that my father failed me. But he is Katrin's father. And he can make up for the ways that he is failing her right now.<<

Müller stared at me. >>Girls and their dads. It never stops being weird.<<

>>Come on, you've got a dad, don't you?<<

She shrugged again. >>I get along great with my Dad. I'm like the son he never had. He taught me everything I ever knew about electrical engineering.<< 

>>Your Dad's an electrical engineer? Figures!<<

>>Yeah, and you know what? He actually works at that big power station out the other side of Düsseldorf.<<

I burst out laughing. >>Your father works _at_ a Kraftwerk, and you work _for_ Kraftwerk? You are kidding me. <<

>>No, really. In earnest. I love the symmetry, don't you?<<

>>My Dad's a computer programmer<< I sighed.

>>Weren't you a computer programmer before you came to work for Hütter?<<

I stared off into the middle distance, realising everything that I was giving up. >>I guess I will be again, soon.<<

>>What languages do you program in? I can ask around, through my friends, see if there are any jobs going...<< Müller offered, but I shook my head.

>>Müller, I'm sorry, but I would just really like to go to bed now. I didn't get much sleep this weekend, and it's been a hell of a day.<<

>>No, sure. Go ahead. Do you mind if I listen to music on my headphones while I work, or is that going to bother you?<< she offered, getting up and pulling out the old sofabed to reveal a large, comfortable looking mattress.

>>No, go ahead.<<

I changed into the ridiculous kaftan, then lay down and pulled one of the seat cushions over my head to block out the light. Although I hadn't really thought I was going to get any sleep, and just wanted a break from the terrifying thoughts of my suddenly abbreviated future, I soon drifted off.

My dreams were jumbled. I had thought that I would fall back into another episode of that horrible recurring nightmare about getting locked out of Klingklang, but my subconscious shot off somewhere else. I was back at the house where I grew up, a sprawling Colonial farmhouse in upstate New York. It was a hazy, early summer day, so I was sitting out front on the porch, my feet bare, trying to avoid the scorching paving stones, warmed up from the sun.

Someone was sitting in the rocking chair next to me, gently fingerpicking a 12-string guitar just like the one my Dad used to play. I turned, and it was Ralf. But not Ralf as I knew him now, with short hair and a lined, weathered face, but a young Ralf, with long, curling brown hair and a pair of small, wire-rimmed John Lennon specs perched on his upturned nose. I looked down at his legs, wondering if this young, slim Ralf was wearing those skin-tight leather trousers, but no. He was wearing a pair of faded brown cords that were starting to go through at the knees, a checked shirt and a floral Liberty print tie that didn't quite match. It was the kind of uncoordinated outfit my colour-blind father had worn at home when I was young.

>>That's not how the song goes<< I said, as I realised that he was trying to fingerpick the elaborate George Harrison intro to Here Comes The Sun, but in the wrong key, and far too fast.

>>That is how I play it<< insisted Ralf. >>Why don't you sing it with me?<< He started to sing, but he was singing in German, and the words all seemed wrong.

>>I don't know the words<< I said.

"It's alright," sang Ralf, in English, and fingerpicked the fiddly little phrase from the chorus. "Sun, sun, sun, here we come."

I stood up and picked my way gingerly down the driveway to the road, looking both ways for traffic, but there were only a few cyclists making their way up the long, torturous hill. I had never bothered learning to cycle as a child, because of that hill. Ralf followed me, though he was only carrying the guitar, using it to bash tall plants out of the way as we pushed through into the pine forest on the other side of the road. After the harsh asphalt, the pine needles felt wonderfully soft underfoot, and the temperature had dropped a few degrees in the shade.

I followed the hill down until I reached the small brook, then turned towards the oddly young Ralf, putting my hands on his hips. He looked down at me, his face kind but a little nervous. That was odd; Ralf wasn't taller than me. But I seemed somehow to be a teenager again, gangling and awkward and several inches shorter than him. I looked up at him, and he looked down at me. He seemed very young, too, maybe only twenty or so. His skin was so fresh, and a little freckled, where I knew it as deeply lined.

"We don't have to do this, you know," he said, pushing his long hair out of his face to gaze down at me.

"I want to," I replied, understanding suddenly that we had come here to have sex.

"Are you sure?" Ralf actually seemed nervous, shifting from foot to foot like a nervous horse.

At that moment, I heard a crashing noise in the undergrowth. I glimpsed movement in the trees, then a dog shot out from under the pines, an irate Dalmatian headed straight for Ralf, barking fiercely. Ralf recoiled, and pulled away from me, but as the dog lunged for him, a man followed and called sharply. "Barney! Heel!"

The dog, a little unwillingly, pulled away, even as I gasped at my teenage pet. The man, of course, was my own father, bending down to hold Barney's collar, as he looked at me, a little exasperated, a little disappointed, before shaking his head and walking off without another word, dragging the dog behind him.

"We shouldn't do this," said Ralf, who was suddenly wearing his own outfit, a long-sleeved black Lacoste polo shirt a pair of black jeans, instead of my father's clothes. His hair was short again, and I could see the familiar grey at his temples and the lines around his eyes, though I was still a teenager.

"I know," I sighed, and trudged off, following my father until I exited the great forest opposite my parents house, and found myself walking out of the little grove of trees at the top of the park at Herne Hill in South London. Neither Ralf nor my father were in sight. All I had to do was walk down the hill into Brixton, and I would be home. But I didn't feel happy to be home. I felt bereft, and sad, and a little cold... and I urgently needed the loo.

My bladder woke me. When I opened my eyes, the apartment was dark, but I could just about see enough through the glimmer in the skylights to make my way to the bathroom. I relieved myself, then realised I should probably wash out my underwear, as I had not had enough warning to bring extra clothes.

I hung my washed knickers out to dry, then shuffled back to bed. Sleep had deserted me, so I lay awake, staring up through the windows at the German sky, puzzling through the dream and its odd mix of imagery.

I must have fallen back asleep again at some point, because I was woken again by the smell of coffee. For a moment, I wasn't quite sure where I was, and startled a little, shooting up bolt upright at the sudden thought that I might have overslept somewhere and given Ralf away again. But as I looked about the flat, bathed in sunlight, and saw Müller's belongings, slowly, the horror of the previous day came back. "Oh, Christ," I sighed aloud, putting my hand to my head.

>>Good morning!<< called Müller. >>Do you want some coffee? I'm afraid I don't actually have anything to eat, I've just realised. Will you be OK for a minute, while I just cycle down to the supermarket and get some food?<<

>>Yeah, yeah, sure... oh, hang on, I'll give you some money. Can you get me some muesli, some tangerines and some English tea?<< Müller nodded and held out her hand as I dug in my bag. To my great relief, I had a bit of cash, so I peeled off a twenty euro note and gave it to her. As she took it, I realised how much it had started to annoy me that Ralf always paid for everything. It actually felt good to pay my fair share.

>>I'll get some junk food, too<< suggested Müller. >>I think you may need it. Feel free to take a shower while I'm gone - I did leave the hot water on for you. You can use any hair products or soap or anything you find in there.<<

As she clattered off down the stairs, I finished my coffee then took a shower, feeling completely adrift. It struck me, at that moment, as I lathered my hair with her baby shampoo, that no one in the world except Müller knew exactly where I was. Well, obviously, Ralf knew that I was "at Müller's" but I was quite sure that he had never been to her flat. Being cut off like this, it felt both terrifying and quite freeing.

I dressed in the clothes I'd taken off the previous night, then went to my bag. Taking out my phone I checked, both for text messages and for email, but there was nothing. Although I hadn't really expected there to be anything from Ralf, the silence still hurt. I didn't dare log onto either Twitter or Tumblr. The thought of being watched, observed, surveilled, if not even by Katrin, by the entire Kraftwerk fandom, who must have seen that awful blog post by now, it was too much to bear. So I put the phone away and dug through my bag for my pills.

That was odd; they weren't there. I turned my bag practically upside-down, decanting the contents and lining them up on the mattress: wallet, bike keys, Klingklang pass, Rheinbahn card, two phones, a comb, earbuds, spare maxi pad, ibuprofen, Rennies, corkscrew, pocket umbrella, pens in three different shades of blue, even a spare dose of Ralf's heart medication... but no hormone tablets.

Technically, they weren't even birth control, but were low dosages of hormones to try to diminish the effects of my fibroids. But they did also work as contraceptives, something I had grown to rely on, since Ralf and I had started sleeping together. However, they were now gone. No, I could hardly have finished them. I had brought back six months' prescription when I returned from England at the New Year.

Where had I last taken one? I tried to think back. Had I taken one yesterday morning? I couldn't remember doing so, as I'd been pressed for time, trying to rush through the bathroom before Karlheinz woke up, since I'd overslept. Berlin. I had definitely taken one in Berlin, I remembered standing in the bathroom and taking it, just as Ralf came in and smiled at what I was doing, touching me gently on the bare arse and giving me a little squeeze. I'd put the pack down by the sink, and turned to kiss Ralf hello, a toothpaste flavoured kiss that had him laughing and pushing me back against the sink, asking what time check-out was in the morning, and if we had time...

Oh yes, we had had time, and I smiled and blushed a little to remember that quick morning fuck against the sink. But had I picked the pills off the counter? I must have, because we hadn't left anything in the bathroom. But I must have swept them into my toiletries bag, and packed them back up in my suitcase, instead of placing them back in their regular place in my handbag. 

Well, I told myself, packing my things back into the bag. It didn't matter now, as I was almost entirely certain that Ralf and I were finished. I would not sleep with him again. There, that made it final. It was like an omen. With two missing days of the pill, I couldn't sleep with Ralf, even if I wanted to. And I didn't want to. My will was set. After the unmistakable message of that dream, it was clear. We had to end the affair.

I took a deep breath, and dug my laptop out of my rucksack, plugging it in and connecting it to Müller's WLAN. But as I brought up my email and stared at it, I realised that there was no way I could take the coward's way out and do this by email. The only fair thing to do was to wait until Ralf got back in touch with me.

But other email had gathered in my inbox in my absence. The first one I opened was from my subletter in London. With a start, I realised that her term was up, in fact, she'd even stayed a couple of weeks past the six month mark. But she thanked me, and said she was moving on to a house share in West Norwood. She left me a forwarding address, and said she'd left the keys in an envelope with my nice neighbour. So my flat was empty again. That felt like some kind of omen. Even if I didn't move back to England, I would have to return to London briefly to sort out another subletter.

I stared at my inbox, trying to think what to do. Too many decisions were crowding round my head, and I needed to do something. Then, my eyes lighted on the other email, the forwarded edits from the publisher. Well, Müller had insisted that we were going to 'work from home'. It was as good a clear, uninterrupted time as I was likely to get, to work on the final edit. And working, writing, digging myself back into this huge project that was finally coming to an end, with a clear goal in sight, that was the very best way of losing myself and avoiding dealing with a broken heart and the confused mess of working out my future. Settling down on the sofa, I loaded up both manuscript and edits and set to work.

After about half an hour, Müller clattered back into the apartment, calling out. >>English tea! I have English tea. How do I make this stuff anyway?<< 

>>You don't have a kettle do you?<< I asked, climbing to my feet. >>Never mind, I'll heat up water on the stove... oh please tell me you got teabags.<< 

>>Yeah, they come in bags, I think?<< Müller gingerly held up a wilted box of PG Tips.

>>OK, where's your smallest saucepan?<<

She clattered about making breakfast as I boiled water and prepared two absolutely perfect cups of tea. >>OK, this is quite nice<< Müller conceded, as she sipped at it. >>I could almost understand why you would want to drink this.<<

After breakfast, we sat at opposite ends of the apartment, and plugged into our respective laptops to work. I didn't even have to ask her to check on Tumblr for me; she logged on and took a quick look, assuring me >>All quiet on the stalker front. Worryingly quiet, in fact - there's been no new updates at all since yesterday...<<

>>No<< I said. >>No news is good news.<< I did not want to look at it myself, but I was very glad that Müller had the stomach to keep an eye on it. I took a deep breath, made another cup of tea to clear my head, then got back to work.

>>Hey, you know, Kotzübel has just said he's starting a Tumblr. Don't you want to follow him?<<

>>I don't want to know<< I said in a warning tone. But then I sighed, and opened up Twitter. It had been locked down tight since the trip to Berlin, but there was an instant message waiting in my inbox. Karl.

>>You have not replied to any of my tweets, for two days. This is most unusual. Are you angry with me? I did not mean to offend.<<

I tabbed back to my mentions, and found a couple of well-meaning, but now completely inappropriate Kraftwerk jokes he had made, tagging me in. Making my way back to my inbox, I stared at his message for a few minutes, trying to think of how to reply.

>>I’m sorry, Karl. I’m not angry at you at all. I’ve just had some things blow up in my personal life, so I’m going to be staying off social media for a while.<<

A message came back before I had even logged off. He really was a slave to his phone notifications. >>I am so very sorry to hear that. I will respect your privacy and delete the last two mentions I have made. Please, do keep in touch, though. If there is anything I can be of assistance with, just let me know.<< And then there was what looked like a private email address, and a German mobile number.

I side-eyed the screen for a bit, thinking how odd it was that the most extraordinary people could turn out to be so nice. But then I saved the contact details to my phone, and shut the window so I could get back to work.

Müller and I worked straight through the day, and into the lengthening evening, before she announced she was done, and said she wanted to go out for dinner. I declined, saying I couldn't face the outside world - or her stairs - and she grudgingly suggested takeaway instead. When she came back with Chinese food, we sat and ate it while watching television. I would never understand German comedy, but Müller collapsed with hysterics and tried briefly to explain the jokes to me before giving up.

After dinner, she got out a couple of DVDs, some of which actually had English subtitles, and tried to explain German humour with various comedies. Mostly, I was just perplexed, though at least trying to follow the convoluted plots distracted me from my own troubles. Finally, I dug through YouTube and managed to find a couple of early episodes of the Mighty Boosh. Now it was my turn to roar my head off, while Müller, slightly perplexed, laughed at the songs, but could not understand head nor tail of the sketches.

>>Humour<< I said, patting her gently on the shoulder. >>It doesn't translate.<<

I washed out my knickers again in the sink, and lay down for another night on the sagging sofabed, as Müller joked that she was going to take me clothes shopping the next day, as my shirt was starting to smell. Giggling, I offered to wear the Indigo Girls T-shirt instead? She hooted with laughter and told me she'd take me to her favourite lesbian bar wearing it, and see if that didn't get me laid.

>>Though I suppose you really are straight now, after Hütter. No more lesbian bar for you<< she teased, and I couldn't work out if she seriously believed it or not.

>>I was bisexual when I was fucking Hütter, and I continue to be just as bisexual now<< I muttered, slipping back into the familiar argument, though I wasn't at all cross. It actually felt quite reassuring to pick up our usual banter.

>>You know<< said Müller, with a wink. >>Graciella says that she is bi. I think I like getting stuck with the bi girls now. Bi girls are a good fit, for me. I am all for the bi girls.<<

>>Oh, do I finally make the grade<< I grumbled good-naturedly, and pulled the pillow over my head to sleep.

The next morning, when there was still no messages from Ralf, I started to worry a little more. But when Müller flopped down on her bed with her laptop and a cup of tea (Müller was starting to pick up a worrying taste for English Tea) she let out a little gasp.

>>It's gone<< she announced.

>>What's gone?<<

>>Katrin's blog. It's gone.<<

I shook my head sadly, knowing that she was more wily than that. >>Are you sure she's not just changed her username and moved her URL?<< 

>>No, I mean, she's gone. I set up a fake Tumblr to follow her, and she is no longer showing in my following count.<<

I got up and walked over to sit beside her, peering at the screen. >>Are you sure she didn't just work out who you were, and block you?<< 

>>Nah, I followed a couple of Durchaus! and MCR blogs, too, to make it look legit. She is... no, I just typed in her blog name manually, and yeah. Look. There's a little message saying 'deactivated user'.<< She brought up a couple more pages in quick succession. >>The reblogs, too... they're getting 404s. Look, I bookmarked a couple of the reblogs, in case she deleted the original. All of the posts have gone, not just hers. Nothing but this annoying little 'If you're looking for nothing, congratulations! you found it!' message.<<

I watched as she tabbed through several Tumblrs in succession. >>Do you think that Tumblr actually took action? Or was that her father...?<< I stuttered, feeling conflicting waves of relief and fear washing over me.

>>I don't know. Hang on...<< She clicked through into another blog. >>Look here, this is one of her best buddies online, asking if anyone knows what has happened to Katrin's blog. 'She didn't post anything for 24 hours, and now the blog has gone down. Her Twitter has been suspended, too.' Holy shit, check it out...<< Müller tabbed over to twitter, and tried to load the page.

"This user has been suspended for violating the terms of service" it read.

Müller and I stared at one another. I knew I should have been relieved, but the relief refused to settle. All I could feel was a weird, sick, vomitty feeling in the pit of my stomach that had little to do with Müller's lax attitude towards kitchen cleanliness. 

>>Have you heard from Hütter?<< she asked, very quietly. I shook my head. >>Do you want me to go into Klingklang, and, well... ask around?<<

I shook my head quickly, but then relented. >>Well. Maybe you could call.<<

Müller nodded, then took out her Handy. I couldn't hear who she was talking to at the other end, but the conversation went on for a while. >>Yeah, it's Müller. I'm going to work from home again today, just letting you know ... uh-huh. ... Ja ... Hey, look, is Hütter about? I need to talk to him for a minute ... oh, no kidding ... really? Do you know why? ... family emergency? Gee, I hope everything's alright! ... You don't know who or what - no, no, I'm just worried for him. This is so unexpected, and so unlike him ... Yeah, well keep me posted ... let me know if you speak to him ... yeah, tell him I hope everything's OK. My dumb question about the circuit board can wait, never mind ... everything’s clear. Tschüss!<<

As she hung up the phone, Müller and I stared at one another. >>He's not in, I take it<< I said softly.

>>He's taken the week off. Family emergency, Gudrun said<< Müller supplied.

>>Christ<< I swore, and sank down to the saggy sofa.

>>You know what? We need to get you out of the house. You have been sitting on that sofa for 48 hours now, and if you don't get out, you are going to be as saggy as the sofa is. Let's me and you go for a bike ride. Get out of town, into the country. That's not a request, that's an order.<< 

>>What, are you my commanding officer now?<<

>>You know I outrank you at Klingklang<< she teased. >>No come on, I'm serious.<<

She packed a lunch, and we got on our bikes. We headed south-east, out of the city, and into the countryside, headed towards the Unterbacher See. After a couple of days in the gloom of her flat, the sunlight blinded my eyes, but halfway down the road there, I realised it had been the right idea. Out on the open road, my mind cleared, my body protesting my recent inactivity as I pushed myself to go faster, trying to keep up with Müller.

But as soon as I got home, I started to refresh my inbox, looking for any kind of contact from Ralf again. But there was nothing. Wait, no - what was this dropping into my inbox? My heart leapt for a moment, but then I saw it was from Hannah at the publishing house. What did she want?

Her email was polite, even solicitous, thanking me for the most recent set of edits I had forwarded to her. But then there was a strange addendum, asking me if I would be available for further work, when Ralf's book was finished, and if I would be interested in discussing another, potentially quite lucrative, ghostwriting project. I stared at the email, not wanting to think about the future.

Eventually, I sent her something non-committal, but not necessarily a rejection out of hand. I told her I never discussed the next project until I had finished the one I was working on, but when Ralf's book was finished, I might be open to offers. And then I went back to staring at my inbox, waiting for Ralf's name to ever appear in it again. I knew I had to end things with him. Of that I was certain. But until that email came, I existed in this awful Schroedinger state of unknowingness, both having left him, and being still together with him all at the same time.


	28. Accusations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth about the full extent of Katrin H's secret life as a liar and a fantasist all comes out, as her lies get bigger and more exaggerated, until the whole house of cards finally collapses, into a legal mess that her father can no longer save her from. And Katrin T finally works up the courage to end the affair with Ralf.

It was another two days before I finally heard from Ralf. I had passed through shock, beyond 'climbing up the walls' and on into 'strangely calm'. Honestly, I had never believed that the relationship would last forever. Maybe that was why I had been so unmoved by his entreaties in Copenhagen and Berlin. I had always known that it would, probably with some final jolt of discovery, come to an end. Over the past few days, I had reached a level of acceptance, and tried to face that end calmly and rationally, now that the awful blog was gone.

Well. At least, I was calm until I actually saw his number on my phone, and heard his voice in my ear.

>>Hi<< he said, his voice oddly tight, though I could hear he was trying to sound chipper. >>Are you able to talk privately?<<

>>Erm, Müller is here. I can go in the other room, though...<<

But as I walked towards the bathroom, Müller stood up. >>Is that Der Chef? Don't go in the bathroom, no reception back there. Wait, I'll just grab my bag and go out. I need to go to the shops anyway. You know my number if you need me...<< She scrambled around for her keys, then was gone in a puff of indigo and turquoise hair before I could protest.

I stared at the phone, trying to work myself up to the conversation I knew I would have to have. "How are you?" I asked, not sure if I really wanted to know, or if I was stalling for time.

"I am... I am not so good," sighed Ralf, sounding as if he were loaded down with a very heavy weight. "But first, I wanted to tell you that the blog has been taken down. I confiscated Katrin's mobile devices, but unfortunately I did not have the passwords for her accounts. I tried to contact Tumblr, telling them that I was her father, and I wished the blogs taken down, as they were libel, but they were not very forthcoming. So the next morning, I had my lawyers contact them at their office in New York. This, I found much more expedient."

I blinked, realising that this was why the entire account had vanished so mysteriously. "Thank you. I was actually aware that they had gone. Müller has taken over my social media account for me, and was monitoring the situation. I'm very grateful you were able to... well, thank you."

"It is the least I could do," said Ralf softly, and then his voice trailed off, as both of us seemed to be lost for words.

"And Kah..." My voice, which I had previously been keeping under control, stumbled and broke over her name. It still felt sore, that this was the name he had called me in our more tender moments. "Your daughter... where is... how is..."

A very deep sigh at the other end. "She is safe. She is... well, what I mean to say is, you are out of harm's way now."

"How do you know that?" My voice escalated from stumbling to almost hysterical.

"Because over the past few days, I have seen my daughter go from a police cell to a mental hospital, to a private school with locked dormitories, that is how I know," retorted Ralf, in an uncharacteristic flash of anger.

"Police cell?" I gasped, suddenly realising that this had gone a lot further than I had guessed. "Ralf, what happened?"

"Oh, god in heaven." There was the sound of footsteps, as I mentally pictured Ralf standing up and pacing back and forth until he was calm enough to carry on the conversation. "Kate, I do not want to have this conversation over the phone. Can we meet? I will come to you, wherever you feel comfortable."

I sighed deeply, not wanting this to come to a head quite so soon. "Ralf, I'm not sure that's the best idea. I'm still feeling very... Well I'm feeling quite emotionally churned up. I don't know that you and I should... should..."

He cut in abruptly. "You're leaving me, aren't you?"

"Ralf, I... we...." My voice seemed to desert me. He had been right all along. "Yes."

"Kate, please. Let us not do this over the phone. It is so uncivilised. Please, at least do me the courtesy of ending things with me in person. Can you do that? I will not try to change your mind. I promise. But I feel we should do this in person, as adults."

I stared hard at the skylights, trying to think of an excuse that didn't boil down to the fact that I was wearing a kaftan and a pair of harem pants. "Well, let me change."

"It will take me half an hour to drive into town. Where are you?"

"Pempelfort, I think..."

"Let's meet in the Düsselpark, then. It is quite pleasant. There is a brief stretch of the lost Düssel river. It is still quite wild in places, a little like being in the countryside, in the heart of Düsseldorf. I will meet you there in half an hour, yes?"

"Alright."

My jeans were still uncomfortably damp from the wash, so I turned to the dress. It wasn't that awful, really, apart from the colour. It was a denimy shade of blue, but the wrap style actually rather flattered my figure, and it might have looked quite feminine had I partnered it with a pair of sandals, rather than the heavy boots I had been wearing. But at least it was clean and dry and did not smell.

I texted Müller to tell her I was going out, then collected my things, stuck my phone in my bag and headed off. Düsseldorf in the late spring was almost heartbreakingly beautiful, the tall trees and the graceful buildings lining the avenues. I actually remembered the Düsselpark from my very first visit, stumbling off a busy street into this shaded, bucolic riverbed lined with willows and ringing with songbirds.

Of course I got there before Ralf; I always did. I was walking up and down across a small bridge, trying to see a way in to the greenery when I saw him striding up the avenue towards me. Catching sight of him, I waved, and he actually did an almost comical double-take, his eyes sliding off me at first, as if he didn't recognise me, then wrenching back as he realised it was me.

I had expected him to walk towards me, and was prepared to have to push off a hug, even an attempted kiss, but he stopped a few feet away from me and looked me up and down. "What is this?" he asked, neither complimentary nor rude, but simply confused.

"I went to Müller's house without a change of clothes. I have had to borrow some."

"You do not mean to tell me that these are Müller's clothes?" Ralf seemed even more shocked at the idea they were Müller's, than that they might be mine. "I have never seen her in a dress."

"No, they belong to one of her ex-girlfriends. It's the only thing that was even remotely my size," I explained.

Ralf looked me up and down again, but then nodded, as if suddenly remembering his manners. "You look nice. I am just surprised to see you wearing something so feminine. That is all. I don't think I have ever seen you in a dress, either. It is... odd. You do not look yourself." But he changed the subject quickly. "There is a coffee shop just around the corner. Would you like a drink? Then we can go and find a place that is more private, to talk."

I agreed to this plan, and followed him to a coffeeshop. We took away two paper cups, keeping conversation light - the weather, the amount of milk I required in my coffee - until we were able to find a private spot. Just off the road was a small bench with a view of the sleepy river, hidden from the road by a huge weeping willow, so private our only competition was a small gaggle of birds. As I shooed away a magpie so we could sit down, I thought abruptly of Florian. But the magpie hopped up into a nearby tree, where it was joined shortly by its mate. _One for sorrow, two for joy_ , I thought to myself, relieved that there was a pair of them. But no sooner than they had landed, another pair of magpies just above started taking them to task, all four birds hopping back and forth and chattering at one another so loudly I was worried I wouldn’t be able to hear Ralf. Fortunately, the spat was short-lived, and the two pairs flew off in opposite directions.

“Hopefully not going to find reinforcements,” I quipped, as peace descended.

Ralf laughed appreciatively. “Do you remember those crows we saw in the Eifel Wald, sitting on a little wooden bench, much like this one.”

I turned to look at him, feeling my resolve wavering as I remembered what we had _done_ on that park bench. He looked heavy around the face, his cheeks puffy, his neck carrying extra weight, as if the events of the past week had taken their toll, and he was not taking care of himself. But the extra weight, oddly, smoothed out his skin in a way that made him look a little younger. His body language was careful, restrained, as he sat a little way away from me on the bench, and did not try to touch me, though he leaned towards me, his legs crossed but one arm draped across the back of the bench, though he stopped short and did not quite put his arm around me.

I looked at him in the sunlight, noting the freckles dusted across his cheeks and forehead, suddenly struck by the intense blue of his eyes in the sunlight. Resisting the urge to reach out and flick that single unruly curl out of his forehead, I risked a tight smile and asked, "And how are you? You look well."

"I look terrible," protested Ralf, raising his hands to his face and rubbing his eyes. "I have not slept well, and I have eaten badly. We have all been under a lot of strain, this past week."

Taking a sip of coffee, I stared off into the cool green of the river. "So... in the end, what happened with... your daughter? How did she end up in a police cell? You were just heading to Karlheinz's apartment to fetch her the last time I spoke to you."

He took a very deep breath, uncrossed and recrossed his legs, then fiddled with the lid of his coffee cup. "Well. You see. As you suggested, Karlheinz went down and tempted Katrin up to his apartment with the promise of cake and ice cream. Which she was eating, perfectly happily, and chatting with Karlheinz about school, until I arrived and she realised she had been set up. But instead of admitting that her game was up, and going home with me quietly, she asked to use the bathroom, and locked herself in there. Once inside, she whipped out her Handy and called the police, claiming that Karlheinz had tempted her upstairs for insalubrious purposes, and that she was in danger of being... how do they say... interfered with."

"Karlheinz?" I almost yelped. "She said that about Karlheinz? What the blazes...?"

"The police arrived in moments. They were ringing the doorbell of the apartment before we even realised that Katrin was not just washing her face or brushing her teeth, or whatever she was doing in there for so long. I did not realise how seriously they took those kinds of allegations, and how quickly."

"The police?" I sputtered. "They believed her? What, with her still locked in the bathroom?" The scene sounded almost comical, had it not been so serious.

"Katrin emerged from the bathroom as soon as the police arrived, and started sobbing and throwing herself on their mercy. She was spinning some outrageous story, and so the police carted Karlheinz off in handcuffs - they were about to cart me off in handcuffs, too, when I managed to persuade them that I was her father with the help of some identification. Karlheinz went down to the station in a police car, while Katrin and I, with me trying to keep very tight hold on her, went down in another."

"Oh my god. Poor Karlheinz. I wish I'd never told him to... oh shit. I am so sorry for getting him involved. I should have known what she was capable of."

Ralf's voice suddenly grew very serious as he lowered his chin and gazed at me. "Do you know, I would not have known what she was capable of, had I not just read those terrible, terrible things that she wrote about you, so publicly, on the internet. And to think... had I not known, I might have believed her. I would have sat there and condemned an innocent man. And Katrin... she honestly thought that Papa was just going to go along with it, rescue her from trouble of her own making, like he always does. So I asked to see the police officer alone, and left Katrin in the 'victim's room' with everyone fussing over her... I told him that my daughter had not been acting herself lately. That she had been very upset, by some personal problems in her family, and that she was acting out. Then, I showed the investigator the blog, and I showed him your original emails. I explained that this girl, my daughter, had only just been caught making a series of baseless and terrible accusations against my mistress..."

I winced at the word, and pulled away, wondering what he had said in German, but he was not to be interrupted in the torrential stream of his story.

"...and that I had the proof right there, about how she lied and manipulated. I told them that I knew Karlheinz was blameless, that he had only been holding her there as a favour to us, so I could collect her from your flat. I explained the whole situation, that my daughter was not well, that there were... psychological difficulties. That she becomes fixated, and unable to see reason. To say such things about my own daughter...” As he looked up at me, his eyes were tortured. “But Karlheinz is a good man, and he had done nothing to deserve this. So I showed the investigator the printouts of the blog, the emails... thank goodness that that Müller had the sense to print them out, so that I was still carrying them. Because the investigator, his whole attitude changed, as soon as he read the files."

"So what happened? Did he confront her?"

"The investigator was very smart. He asked to make a copy of the print-outs. I thought he was going to confront Katrin with them, but no. He just went to talk to her. At first, it seemed like he was just getting background for this 'attack' in Karlheinz's flat. But he started asking who the flat belonged to, who lived there, how she came to be there. Then he went back over it, and asked in a slightly different way. He brought up your name, as a person who lived in the flat. She already started to contradict herself, trying to cover up the fact that she knew it was your flat, first claiming that she didn't know you; then claiming she had no idea that you were my mistress..."

"She is a terrible liar. As in, I mean, she is seriously not very good at lying. It is actually the one thing that will save her, if she could just _learn_ that she is terrible at lying, and just start to tell the truth," I observed. It was an odd thing to say, in the face of this whole, sordid story, but Ralf looked at me with tenderness at that moment, as he realised I spoke the truth. He loved her. Even I had once been fond of her. I realised at that moment, that I didn't want her to go to jail, even for what she had done to me; we both just wanted her to stop acting like this.

"Well. Her whole story unravelled pretty quickly, even before the investigator produced the print-outs of the blog, and laid them before her. She shut up pretty quickly, after that."

"And what about Karlheinz?"

"They let him go, as soon as they realised that the story was baseless. But I'm afraid that your tenancy is at an end. Karlheinz has been a very reasonable and friendly man, but after this, I cannot blame him, but he wants no more connection with this family. He was shaken rather badly by the whole ordeal."

"Oh my god, poor Karlheinz," I muttered, cringing as I thought about that wonderful, friendly decent man being dragged off to the police on account of that brat. But then, I felt myself growing angry. First my lover, and now my home; was there no end to what Katrin could somehow fuck up for me? "But what about my things, my clothes, my belongings?"

"Don't worry. I have them. Karlheinz was very thorough. He removed everything of yours and boxed it up for you. It is all there. I collected it yesterday. It is all in the car."

"Everything?" I suddenly panicked. "But..." My voice drifted off as I realised I did not want to cop to some of my belongings.

"Yes, everything," Ralf supplied, raising his gaze and looking at me very intently. "He found your diary under the bed, with the memory cards of our interviews that you were saving, and your notes from the interview with Florian that you did not want me to know that you had conducted."

I swallowed nervously. "I suppose you read them."

He held my gaze for a long time, but finally he shook his head and dropped his eyes. "No. I had no need to. I had no _desire_ to. The memory cards, I have kept, as per our contract. The diary and the interview with your beloved Florian, I put them in your suitcase with your old laptop. Your secrets are yours."

For a long time, there was silence between us. Those memory cards, I knew, held not interviews, but endearments. Whispered declarations of affection. On one, the machine had caught us as we had started to make love. Ralf's soft voice. Those urgent whispers. Our love-making. All of it was gone. The silence deepened, but overhead, birds chirped in the trees as dappled sunlight glinted off the lazy Düssel. The beauty of the day seemed almost to taunt us, refusing to allow me to be miserable. "And Katrin," I said at last. "What will happen to Katrin?"

"Well," sighed Ralf, his mouth setting into a grim line. "Trifling with the police, you see, is a slightly more dangerous matter than trifling with schoolgirls, or with her internet friends. The investigator told me that they were going to keep her in overnight. I thought... well, I confess I thought that it might do her some good, to have a little scare, to have her realise just how much trouble she could get herself into with her lies, that Papa couldn't save her from."

"Oh, scheisse," I swore, having a bad feeling about how this story ended. I picked up my coffee, but it was finished, so instead I started picking absent-mindedly at the hem of my skirt, fiddling with it and turning it back to let the dappled sunlight hit the pale white of my calves.

"When Jutta and I went down to pick her up the next morning, she was not there." It actually took me a moment to realise that he had referred to his wife by name for the first time since I had known him. I was so used to him calling her 'my wife' or 'the mama' that for a moment I didn't realise who he was talking about. "The Duty Officer told me that there had been an incident overnight. That she had become a danger to herself, and those around her. Emergency services had been called. They said she had thrown a tantrum, which had developed into 'a fit' of some kind."

"It wasn't a fit, it was a meltdown, wasn't it," I said in a dead voice, pulling at a thread in the hem of my dress and watching the fabric unravel all the way around the hoop of the skirt.

"I was under the impression that the police had been trained these days, that they had been prepared for what to do with people with special needs, especially children. But the overnight staff were not sensitive to these issues. They had called a trauma team, who mistook her for an adult, and carted her off to a psychiatric institute."

"She's 16 now. Is that considered an adult, in Germany?"

But Ralf shook his head, picking up his coffee cup, and shaking it to find it empty. "No, 16 is not an adult here. It was a mistake. But I have never seen Jutta so angry. I thought she would tear that police station apart with her bare hands. She demanded to know where Katrin had been taken, and my god, she moved heaven and hell to find out. We drove down to the institution at breakneck speeds. It was a terrible place, down near Köln, a kind of barracks, like something from the 50s. Jutta, having been a nurse, knew the terminology and how to get through the procedures. So even though there was no question of visiting hours at such a high security institution, she got through to the head of the ward, and got us in to find our daughter." He took a deep breath, his mouth very tight.

"Did you see her? Was she alright?"

"Katrin was in a terrible state. She had been drugged heavily, with antipsychotic medication, and was barely aware of where she was. Jutta was like a mother lioness. I thought she would cut a swathe of destruction through that hospital to get Katrin out. It would have been magnificent to see, had I not been so afraid for our daughter. She had them stop the medication immediately, as Katrin is underage, and requires parental approval for any treatment. Then, she invoked a 48-hour notice - another medical matter I had no idea about - which means that the doctor has 48 hours to prove that the patient is a danger to themselves or society, or else discharge them to the care of their family."

"There is a similar thing in the States, though they don't like you knowing about it," I observed. "That was very clever of her."

"Jutta spoke to the doctor who was supposed to be in charge of Katrin's case - he hadn't spoken to her for more than about ten minutes - and explained that she had an Autistic Spectrum Disorder. She managed to get hold of Katrin's child psychologist at almost no notice, and demanded she drive all the way out to the institution, to examine Katrin, and give her professional opinion on her diagnosis. Katrin, after 24 hours without the antipsychotics, was starting to be less groggy, but was very, very scared. By this point, I think it really had dawned on her exactly how serious things had become."

I blinked at Ralf, wanting to say something, but not even knowing where to begin.

"It was this therapist who suggested the private school. She had raised it before, a few years ago, but Katrin refused, because she did not want to be separated from her schoolfriends. Now, I think she realised she was running out of options."

"What is this private school? With locked dormitories, is it really any better than an institution?" I said, a little rattily.

"It's fairy new. It is a school, specifically for girls on the Autistic Spectrum, usually girls who cannot function in, or who have been excluded from the traditional school system. They have many girls with Asperger's there, some even as bright as Katrin. We did look at it before, when... Well. We thought that was behind us now."

"When what?" I demanded, a little nervously.

"This is not the first time that Katrin has caused trouble like this," Ralf confessed. "I... well, I did not understand, then. I did not know, how different this thing is, in girls. I know only from myself. That when I tend to get obsessed, I get obsessed with things. With machines. Synthesisers. Bicycles. But it seems, that girls with Asperger's have a tendency to develop fixations with people. I never did this, so I did not know..."

"Ralf," I coughed gently.

"What?"

"I have read your diaries!"

"And...?"

"You had an intense obsession with a blonde waitress? Then a student named F-, and another called S-..."

Ralf looked up, his eyes suddenly bright. "Frieda? Susannah? I haven't thought about them in years." But then his expression changed, as for a moment, he looked a little lost, then he slowly recomposed his face into a gentle semblance of understanding. "Well. Maybe we are not so unlike after all. I did say to you that I had a very strong feminine side."

"Katrin has done this before, then?" I probed.

Ralf nodded slowly, sadly. "It's complicated," he said slowly. "There was a boy, at school. Katrin was passionately fond of him. I think there was some friendship on his side, but Katrin blew it all completely out of proportion. His parents made.. well, allegations. Of course we took Katrin's side. After all, everyone knows what teenage boys are like. We contested the allegations, and the boy's parents quietly changed his school. Katrin went to a therapist for a time, and it all blew over. Katrin, you see, is so bright. And very outgoing. She has Jutta's gift of being able to charm people. But now... now, I have to wonder."

As his voice faded out, we sat in silence. But finally, curiosity got the better of me. "What were the allegations?"

"I do not like to talk about this. I had almost forgotten it, and do not wish to be reminded of it," he snapped, but then relented. "Well. You can imagine. They were too young for sex, but there was some inappropriate behaviour. Repeated phone calls with no voice on the line. Strange letters. The boy's parents said that Katrin was the aggressor; Katrin said that the boy was the aggressor. At the time, we had no reason not to believe her. But now..."

I felt bile rising in the back of my throat. "So that was when she learned to lie about that sort of thing, in order to slide out of trouble. And this is what fucks me off so much. It's not even that she's hurt me - and now Karlheinz, not to mention this other boy - with her lies. It's the fact that once she's lied about one thing, it proves she can lie about _any_ thing. And when she lies, so casually, and so cavalierly, she makes it _so much harder_ , for other girls to ever be believed. That's what hurts the most. You know what happened to me, when I was her age. That _happened_. I didn't make it up. I never told a soul about it, because I was terrified that no one would believe me. And do you know why they don't believe me? Because of people like Katrin, maliciously lying for revenge against people that reject her."

But Ralf stopped and looked up at me, his deep blue eyes suddenly clear. "I believe you," he said, very soft and very low. "Kate, I believe you."

I took a deep breath. I took another one. The world carried on turning. Slowly, Ralf reached across the bench, and took my hand. For a moment, I resisted, and wanted to yank it away, not getting pulled back into this relationship again, but then I relaxed, realising that the chemistry had changed. His taking my hand was no longer the slightest bit erotic, or even romantic. It was perhaps even slightly paternal, as he held my hand and stroked my fingers.

"I know you are still leaving me," he said. "I am not trying to change that."

"You know this has to end. This conversation has only strengthened my resolve."

"I know." He nodded slowly, still stroking my hand. "In a way, I am glad that it is you leaving me, because that makes this easier. Jutta and I have been talking. We have been talking like we haven't been talking in years. And not just about Katrin. Things are going to change."

I smiled through tears I hadn't even realised I had been crying. "I'm glad."

"You know, I just want to say... to you, as well as to her. I am not a _cheater_. I have never had an affair before. I don't think I will ever have one again. This has not been _like me_. I'm not going to act like Katrin, and blame everyone else except myself, say 'oh, it's because Jutta was too caught up in her charity work' or say 'oh, it's because Katrin has been growing slowly more and more challenging and difficult to live with', even though both of those things are true. You and I entered into a _fantasy_ together. And it was intoxicating. It was a beautiful thing to do, to work together, to express our creativity together, and then go to bed together. You and I were in so deep... You know, in some ways... I don't like to admit it, but Katrin's fantasies were not entirely so fantastical."

"In what way?" I demanded, my eyes growing wide with alarm as I pulled back from him.

"There was a time," he confessed, not meeting my eyes. "The time has passed, but there _was_ a time. When I wanted to leave my wife, and marry you. But it has passed, and I am so grateful now, that I did not ask that question, as now I have snapped out of my fantasy, I know you would have said no."

I took a deep breath and cast my mind back. That time in Düsseldorf, when he had stopped to look at apartments. Those strange hints in Denmark. The question those two lads had prevented him from asking. "Was that, what you wanted to ask me, in Christiania?" I wondered aloud.

"Oh, Kate. Don't ask questions you don't want to know the answer to. It does not matter now. I know you are leaving me. Jutta was right. At the bottom of it, the affair was a by-product of the book, and I believe it would have burned itself out once the book was finished, even had this not happened. But this did happen. And it was, how you say in English, a wake-up call. My daughter needs me. My daughter needs me to be present, in my family, and in my marriage, and not go running off to this beautiful fantasy. To be with you is to run away. It is not good to run away from one's problems. I have the feeling that your father ran away, didn't he?"

I nodded slowly. "Yes. He had the audacity to blame me, at one point. I was out of control. I was just as crazy as Katrin was... though... It was different for me. For me it was drinking that I got into, drugs, a bad crowd. But the same result, police, institutions, that kind of thing. So my father walked out. He ran away. The irony being, I have always been emotionally _leaky_. Permeable. I have always acted like a bellweather for the emotions around me. When other people act out strong emotions around me, I cannot help but pick them up, often without even knowing what is causing them. Like interference in the electrical current produces distortions in the tone of an analogue synth. Power surges and things. I don't think the problem was with me, so much as I was acting out the pressure of the family that was collapsing around me."

Ralf kept hold of my hands, squeezing gently. "And you walked into my family, and became another bellweather."

I nodded slowly, unable to speak.

"I'm not leaving." It took me a moment to work out what he was talking about. "I am staying put. With my family. I know that my daughter needs me. And so does Jutta."

"I have never got the feeling that Jutta needed you," I said, a little cattily.

But Ralf smiled mysteriously. "You know, that is what I came to think, for a time. Jutta does not need me, she is so strong, she is so capable, she cares about all of the orphans and refugees of the world, but she does not care for me. But I was wrong. Jutta loves me. And Jutta loves Katrin more than life itself. That's where Katrin has always been wrong, too. Jutta doesn't understand her, this is true. But she loves her, and this is what has pulled us back together. I _understand_ Katrin, even when I don't particularly like her."

"Can you _say_ that?" I gasped. "Don't you love her?"

"Of course I love her!" Ralf almost snapped. "But only when you have been a parent can you really understand how one can love someone completely and unquestioningly, even when one doesn't like them very much. Jutta has love. I have understanding. A child needs both. Jutta and I make a good team. After twenty years of marriage, the passion, the eroticism, that comes and goes. But we make a good team. We will pull through this. I know we will."

"Do you love Jutta?" I asked, almost afraid of the answer.

"Yes, of course I do. There are many different kinds of love in this world," said Ralf. "And we really are going to make a go of it. She has stopped running away, too. She says she is going to put aside the refugees and the orphans for a little while, to concentrate on her own family. She has stepped down as trustee of the Benevolent Ladies, taken a leave of compassionate absence, though I am paying rather heavily for this leave, with an increased donation.” He rolled his eyes, but then made an understanding gesture. “In the meantime, my wife has taken up another charity, joined a different organisation."

"Jutta is as single-minded a workaholic as you are. What's to stop her getting just as caught up in this charity?"

"Well," said Ralf, smiling his little-boy smile. "This is an organisation for the parents of daughters on the Autistic Spectrum. For once, Katrin and I will be teaching, and she will be learning. I think it will be different, but I think we will make a success of it, yes."

"Are you happy?" I could feel the tears flowing openly down my cheeks now. "I really do want you to be happy."

"Yes, I think I will be, if Katrin settles down at this school. And we think she will. Her therapist says there has been an improvement since she has been off social media. There is a kind of negative synergy that happens when young people get together in a group online, like that. A herd mentality where they spur one another on to do terrible things, and feel justified in their bullying. A kind of peer pressure that becomes amplified and distorted by the speed and the immediacy of the internet. They call it a digital detox, to take children out of this environment." He stopped, then reached to wipe away a tear with the edge of his thumb. "Kate, will you be happy?"

"I have no idea," I said. "I have no job, no home... everything I own is in a suitcase in the back of your car... Well, I suppose I'm going to have to crawl back to England with my tail between my legs and beg for my programming job back."

"No, I don't think so," said Ralf, and I looked up at him, confused. "You go back to England, yes. But a large payment has been made to your account, now you have finished the book. I think that gives you several months to work out what to do next, yes?"

"I had almost forgotten about that," I confessed, feeling suddenly light as air, and free. At that moment, I abruptly remembered the email from Hannah. What if I accepted another book project? I had already proved I could do it once.

"And the book will need to be promoted. I hate interviews, you know that I do. But people may want to talk to you. If you wanted to pitch some articles about what it is like to work with the annoying and impossible Ralf Hütter as your boss, well... You are a writer now. You might get some paid work from this, yes?"

"You would allow that?"

"I would expect it." He shifted on the bench. "Be kind to me, as you have been kind in the book. That is all I ask."

"Why would I be unkind? I do still love you. That's what makes this hard. I haven't stopped loving you, not at all. I just know that I can't be with you," I confessed.

At this, he turned towards me, and placed his hand on the side of my face, touching me tenderly. "Do you think I don't? Do you think I could stop so easily? Do you think I can really turn it off and on, like a robot? Of course I still love you. I probably always will. But as I said, there are many different kinds of love in the world. This is perfect, impossible fantasy love. It is better to end it, because it is not the kind of love that could survive being admonished for forgetting to buy another carton of milk or leaving my socks in the dryer. It is not the kind of love that could survive daily wear and tear and impositions from unruly, mentally ill teenagers. It is a love for fairy tales, and songs, and romance novels. You were right, in Berlin. Let’s not ruin this good thing by bringing forever into it. Let us keep it the way it was, passionate and perfect in our memories. And never let it tarnish, or grow old, or develop bald patches and scars and sagging bits."

"I actually love your scars and your sagging bits and your bald patches," I admitted. I wanted to break down and weep, as I put my hand on top of his, and held it to my face. I wanted to throw my arms around him and kiss him, and just hug him forever. Although I'd started this meeting wanting to keep my distance from him, now I wanted to cleave to him and never let him go. "I wish..." I started to say, then shook my head. "No, forget it."

"No, what is it?" He asked, putting his other arm around my shoulders and letting me crumple against his chest. "Tell me."

"I just wish we could have one more time together, sagging bits and all. One last kiss, one last chance to make love, before we part," I confessed, rubbing my nose into his chest to smell him.

"Is that really such a good idea?" said Ralf, bending down to rub his nose against my hair, planting tiny kisses on the top of my head. "There is never just 'one last time'. There is always one last time, and then another, and then always one more. Immer wieder, forever and again. That song of Michael’s you love so much."

"No, it's a terrible idea," I conceded, even though I couldn't help rubbing my face back and forth across his chest, feeling his nipples coming to life beneath my cheek. "But I am leaving. I am going back to England, so this really is the last time. After this, I go." As soon as I said it, I realised I had already made up my mind to go.

"There was a small hotel on that side street, by the coffee shop." As I sat up, I could see that his eyes were completely frank. "If you really wanted to do this."

I stared at him, looking at his lips, then moved my head forwards and kissed him. His lips parted, my tongue entered his mouth, but the sensation was different. The urgency had gone. I pulled away and just looked at him.

He licked his lips and smiled. "Kiss me two times," he said softly. "Kiss me once for tomorrow, and once just for today. Kiss me two times, cause you're going away."


	29. One Last Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Katrin T and Ralf separate, they spend one last night together, where Katrin realises that she trusts him enough to ask him to push through her last taboo.
> 
> And after Katrin leaves Germany, she realises that Ralf has left her with somewhat more than she dreamed of.
> 
> A reminder, that this story is fiction. All of the characters not actually in the band Kraftwerk are original characters, they are intended to be read as fictional creations.

I burst out laughing, and kissed Ralf again. Our touches became more erotic, as I reached for his thigh and squeezed gently, feeling the firmness of his cycling muscles. His hand went to the side of my dress, then plunged into the folds of the wrap, searching for my nipple with his thumb, massaging gently. A slight tussle, and he pulled my breast free, into the sunlight, and bent to kiss it, pulling my nipple erect with his lips. My body responded in a way that my mind hadn't, my back arching and my thighs growing wet.

"Yes, alright, yes," I said, tangling my fingers in his hair and pulling that rebellious curl loose. "Let's go, before I change my mind."

He pulled away with a smile on his face, as I struggled to pop my breast back into my bra. Standing, he held out his hand and pulled me to my feet. "Let's go to my car," he offered. I collected my bicycle, and walked with him. It was not far, and when we got there, he opened the boot to show my battered suitcase, and two large cardboard boxes. "Your things," he said. "I thought you might want them."

"I can't take them all now... what will I do with..."

"Take your suitcase," he directed. "You will need it at the hotel. The boxes, I will ship to you back in England." Bending down, he removed the suitcase from his car, and stood it on its wheels. "Do you want me to ship your bicycle, too?"

"It's your bicycle, do what you like with it," I shrugged, realising that I would miss it.

"Well, then, I choose to ship it to you in England. English bicycle, English girl, you belong together." He closed the boot of the car, then loaded my bike onto the rack and fastened it.

I was glad of the suitcase when I got to the hotel. I booked the room, paid for it with my bank card, while Ralf hung back, a pair of sunglasses shielding his eyes. A tiny lift took us up to the fourth floor, where we entered a small but clean room. As Ralf lifted the suitcase to its stand, I lay down on the bed, and started to pull off my boots.

"Ralf," I said as I lay back. "Stop fussing with that and come here. I want you to kiss me."

He did as he was told, kicked off his shoes, dropped his sunglasses to the desk, and stretched himself out beside me, taking me by the shoulders and pulling me closer to kiss me. His hands were at the belt of my dress, untying it quickly and peeling me open like a ripe piece of fruit. He bent down, unfastening my bra and freeing my breasts, pulling each into his mouth in turn, tormenting my nipples with his teeth as he cupped each breast gently. My mind felt oddly clear, even as my body grew more and more aroused, and all I could think was... This is how we are saying goodbye to one another's bodies. I am saying goodbye to these freckles on his shoulders, I am saying goodbye to this mole on his neck, I am saying goodbye to this long, silver scar that goes right down the centre of his chest, as I kissed my own goodbye to each. His stomach, soft and fat. His balls, hairy and taut. His thighs, and then his calves, shaven smooth for cycling season. Both of us were busy, kissing each beloved body part goodbye.

But abruptly, I lay back, and pulled his head to face me. "Ralf..." I asked, my voice very quiet. "I want you to kiss me."

He smiled and bent down to latch his mouth onto mine, sucking my tongue into his mouth. I responded for a moment, moving my lips against his, but then withdrew, pushing him gently away.

"No," I corrected, with what I hoped was a sexy little smile. "Not there."

His face grew grave, as he realised what I asked. "Are you sure? I do not want to hurt you or upset you."

"Please," I said. "I want you to do it. I trust you."

He looked at me for a long time, his eyes searching, and then he smiled. "Alright," he said, kissing my forehead gently. "But stop me if it hurts, or if it's too much, or it doesn't feel right in any way. You don't have to talk. Just tap me twice on the shoulder, or pull on my earlobe. I will stop if you want me to stop, alright? I promise that."

He slid down my body with the expectant smile of a little boy on Christmas morning. The joy he took in my body was palpable, as he took my knickers by the hem, and pulled them down off my hips. Spreading my legs, he parted my thighs and moved between them, exploring first with his fingers, though I could see the excitement in his face.

>>You are so beautiful<< he breathed softly. >>And you smell so good. I love how you are always already wet when I go to you. It makes me feel sexy, that I can do this to your body.<< Gingerly, he parted my lips with his fingertips, then bent down to lick, gently. >>You taste so good<< he told me. >>I want to eat you up.<<

I lay back, closed my eyes, then opened them again. It was better with my eyes open, so that I could see Ralf, his freckled shoulders between my thighs, the top of his head, the silver roots shining through beneath the dark blond hair, that tiny bald patch at the back of his head. His head was beloved. His mouth was beloved as it fastened on to me, his tongue teasing, pushing, flicking inside. I took a deep breath, and allowed myself to relax.

I felt nothing. No panic, no sense of shame, no fear that froze my limbs. All I could feel was little flickering bursts of pleasure where his lips pressed against me. Rolling my hips, I moved my thighs to give him more room, surprised that I was able to move. Yes, it felt much better at that angle, as I reached down, and tangled my fingers in his hair, pushing him towards the place I wanted him to go.

>>Are you alright?<< he asked, his voice muffled. >>I am not hurting you? Say if you want me to stop.<<

>>No, it feels nice. Talk to me.<<

>>It's hard to talk with my mouth full<< he chuckled, moving his mouth up and taking a great, liquid suck at my clitoris. I cried out aloud. >>Should I stop?<< he asked, raising his head and looking up at me, his blue eyes suddenly wide.

"No. But please, don't touch it directly. Push from underneath."

>>I know what you like<< he said, then moved lower, shifting himself. As he pushed the broad base of his tongue against the flesh just below my clitoris, he worked two of his fingers up inside me, and started to push rhythmically from inside, catching me as if in a vice. I cried out, louder, and started to buck my hips, feeling pleasure twisting inside me, almost too intense to bear. >>Should I stop?<<

"No!" I moaned aloud. "I will pull your earlobe if I want you to stop. Keep doing exactly what you are doing."

He moved his fingers, sliding up and down, as he worked with his tongue, back and forth. I tried to hold my breath, but it was pointless. Little electric bolts of pleasure were shooting back and forth all around my groin. A wave of pleasure, a tickle, then a rhythmic surge of electricity rocked me, taking me completely by surprise. The orgasm was short, but very, very intense, leaving me feeling like I had been shocked.

His rhythm didn't slow; clearly he did not realise I had already come. "Ralf," I sighed. "You can stop if you want. I just came."

>>I don't want to stop<< he murmured. >>You taste so good. We can go again, yes?<<

I waited a few minutes, panting, feeling terribly selfish, but still. I did not tug at his ear. I let him work at me, feeling the pressure and the pleasure building up again. This time, I started to move back against him, deliberately pushing myself to a second orgasm. This was not as intense, but it was much longer, rolling back through me, until I thought I was going to completely lose control of my limbs, one of my legs shaking and twitching uncontrollably like an itch I couldn't scratch.

"Again," I moaned.

>>How about a third, then<< he suggested. >>A fourth? A fifth? How many is your body capable of having?<<

He wrecked me, again and again. I could no longer keep track of what was orgasm and what was relief. The rolling spasms stopped around six or seven, and gave way to little star-like bursts of pleasure. The pleasure expanded. I seemed to be just constantly somewhere between coming and being turned on. I could barely breathe. My eyes were open, but I saw nothing but static.

Finally, Ralf pulled away. >>I think that was nine, or was it ten? My tongue is tired, and I want desperately to fuck you.<< He kissed me, and I sucked at his tongue, not caring that he tasted of me. How could he think this tasted good? It didn't taste of anything. >>Turn over<< he directed, pulling at my hips. >>Yes, lie on your side, I know you like it best from the behind.<<

I felt him enter me. I was so aroused and exhausted and my entire lower half seemed to have turned to jelly. His hands went to my breasts, as his strokes grew harder, forcing himself deeper and deeper inside me. I had lost track of all time, had lost track of where my legs ended and his began. We were just one flesh, one aching, pulsing, thrusting mass of tendons and nerves.

>>I am going to come. Can I come on your breasts, or do you want me to stay inside?<<

>>Stay where you are<< I whimpered. There was some reason that I should have asked him to pull out of me, but I couldn't remember what it was. >>I want you to come in me, leave something of you inside me. Leave me your cum to remember you by.<<

"Oh, Scheisse," he sighed. >>Your little English accent. It is too erotic....<< And then his hips stilled as he spurted inside me. 

He held me for a long time, both of us trying to catch our breaths as our heart rates slowed back to normal. I wanted to keep his cock inside me for as long as possible, but it shrank and slid out. Turning around in his arms, I moved to face him then smiled gently, reached up and gently tugged at his earlobe.

He laughed. "OK, we stop now." Then he bent to kiss me again.

"I want to remember you like this. Just naked, sweaty, vulnerable, lying in my arms."

But he shook his head. "No, I think I want to remember you in my office, with your little recording device, looking at me very sternly over the top of your glasses like you are disagreeing intensely with me, and saying 'are you sure that's all you remember, Ralfi? You can tell me more than that' knowing, all the while, that I will always give you more and more, typing away at your little laptop, and taking everything I can give you. That is how I want to remember you."

"I will never forget you," I said, even as I knew it was time for him to take a shower and leave. I had a train to book, and he had phone calls to make.

"I know you won't. I know that I have left a little tiny piece of me inside you. You said it yourself, as you were explaining how you write. You have a piece of me, in your head, for you to write your stories from. I think I will be happy in your head. And that little piece of me will always love you. Will always be there for you. Will always comfort and protect you. I like the thought of that. Keep that little piece of me safe."

I wanted to cry, but I smiled through the tears, and kissed his nose. "You should go _now_ ," I told him. "Before I change my mind about leaving you."

"You are absolutely right," he said, kissed me one last time, then headed for the shower.

 

\----------

 

In the end, it was harder to say goodbye to Müller than it was to Ralf. Ralf and I parted with a brief hug and a kiss. He swore that he would ship my things, my bicycle, back to England, but that he would not try to contact me again, unless I asked him to. If he had any business that needed to be attended to, he would use the lawyers, and so would I. Then he reminded me that Kraftwerk would be playing in London, in June. If I wanted a ticket, I was welcome to one. But if I preferred not to go, that would be fine, too. I said I would see how I felt. 

He walked to his car, started it, and sat tugging on his gloves as he warmed up the engine. I stood on the steps of the hotel, and watched as he pulled out and drove away, those Krefeld plates disappearing into traffic.

Then I called Müller and told her I was staying at a hotel, to give her some privacy for the evening. She immediately invited herself round, saying she would drop off my rucksack and my laptop, but as soon as she arrived, she started trying to convince me not to leave Germany. For Müller, I had to promise to come out for a drink every night the band were in London.

>>Klingklang is going to be so boring without you! And think of how Falk will pine<< she teased.

>>God, I am going to miss them<< I confessed. >>I do wish I had had a proper opportunity to say goodbye.<<

>>Gudrun will probably send round a card, and make everyone sign it. That’s what happened when Stef left to get married. Give me your address, and I'll get her to post it to you<< she teased.

>>I'm quite sure Gudrun cannot wait to see the back of me.<<

But Müller turned out to be right. Two days after I got home to London, a large brown envelope appeared, with a German postmark and a return address I recognised as Klingklang. Ralf had promised he wouldn't get in touch with me, so I opened it, expecting some kind of HR forms or termination letter or something. But instead, I pulled out a large card, with that photo of the whole gang, at dinner in Mexico, blown up on the cover of it. The entire inside was absolutely covered, leaving not a single inch of blank space, with scribbles and notes and well wishes from the entire "Radsportgruppe Klingklang" crew. Everyone had signed it, with little in-jokes about >>Englischtee<< and >>can I bring my bike?<< and >>who is going to vape with Müller on the balcony now?<< Falk's note made me actually laugh out loud. >>I am sad that you are leaving, but my wife is absolutely bereft. She had been planning to find a way to invite you round since you followed each other on Twitter. I suspect she may be nursing a little crush on you! Greetings from both of us, Falk (and Felda)<<

I did not go back to my old life. I sailed off into an uncharted new life. I opened up my inbox, and I found the email address of my old editor at The Wire, and I fired off the pitch that Ralf had suggested, spilling the beans on what it had been like to work at Klingklang. Then I wrote to Hannah, the American editor, lying a little and saying it had been nice to meet her, but letting her know I was available for work, if she wanted to discuss that project she had hinted at before. She emailed back a Non-Disclosure Agreement then asked for my Skype address.

I really was a writer now. I couldn't give away any of the details of the offer I received because of the NDA, but it was a big one, and more importantly, it was an exciting one. I could already feel my creative juices start to flow, after the first, tentative Skype session where my subject decided to approve me as a co-author. I loved the artist’s music, and realised this was going to be fun.

Yes, I went to see Kraftwerk at the Royal Albert Hall, mostly because Müller twisted my arm to meet her for a drink during the day. It was the hottest day of the year, and the whole city seemed to be melting, so we bought two bottles of ice cold ginger beer and walked out into the park to dip our feet in a fountain, while we caught up on the Klingklang gossip. The band were going back immediately to Düsseldorf after the last London gig, because Le Tour de France had scheduled their Grand Départ in Düsseldorf that year, and Kraftwerk were playing at the grand opening ceremony. Ralf and Fritz, the two most avid cycling fans in the group, were absolutely beside themselves with joy, but even Müller was pretty pleased. There were some kind of secret plans afoot, involving top secret designs that Ralf would not let anyone see, but life was generally good in the Klingklang camp.

She was wearing a wedding band, which I teased her about relentlessly. After all the fuss about a civil ceremony in Germany, and the rumours that Merkel was going to quash the upcoming amendment for full Gay Marriage in Germany, she and Graciella had opted for a quiet wedding in Mexico City. Well, by quiet, Müller meant, she had flown out only her parents, but Graciella’s whole family had turned out, with no less than eight small cousins who all wanted to be bridesmaids, even though it was a second marriage. She showed me pictures on her phone, and though the pair of them looked jet lagged and shell-shocked by turn, she swore it was the happiest day of her life.

But when it came to the gig, I did not go backstage, and I swore her to secrecy not to tell anyone that I was there. Did it hurt to see Ralf walk out onstage, looking so small and so old, and so far away? No, not really. Kraftwerk were a machine. It was like watching someone from another life. He was as remote as a pop star, up on that stage, beautiful and untouchable. I knew every note of the songs, even knew every scripted bow, and let myself be carried away by the spectacle of Falk’s graphics. Seeing Ralf up on the stage was like watching a film, not like seeing a man whose sweating body I had pressed so close to mine.

Another month went by. I was caught up in an expansive, happy mood, as Kraftwerk played in Düsseldorf for the Grand Départ, and Ralf’s big surprise that Müller had been so curious about was revealed to be... a bicycle design that one of the athletes would ride. Ralf’s grinning face popped up on my news feed again and again, commenting on the race, or discussing the concert, and I had thought it would feel awful, but no. Mostly I felt relieved and more than slightly pleased that he looked so happy. I did not regret leaving him. It was the right thing to have done, I thought, especially when I saw a photo of him standing on a balcony, overlooking the race, next to a teenage girl whose hair had been dyed back to the same light brown as her father.

My heart, finally, was starting to heal. But my body, unfortunately, had been acting strangely. Although I had stopped taking hormonal pills after leaving Düsseldorf, and had a small bleed, my period had not yet returned to normal. That was due to stress, I assumed, or the fibroids, or perhaps the menopause was finally arriving. But I was due for a review with my GP, and with the political situation in the UK worsening every day, I thought I should make use of my NHS while we still had one.

I had had blood work done before I arrived, but my doctor peered at the results slightly worriedly. "Is there anything I should be aware of?" I asked, a little put out.

"Well, yes. Some things are off - not to be alarmed - but I'd like to do some further tests. Would you mind urinating in this jar?"

"Is it the anaemia?" I asked. "It's always the anaemia, isn't it. Am I going to have to take the horse pills again?"

"Well, yes, your blood iron is low, and there are some other things that are out of balance, but I want to rule something else out, first..." She shooed me out of her office and into the bathroom. I urinated, then sat in the waiting room, awaiting being called back in for the results.

"Horse pills," I sighed, as I walked back in to my GP's office, seeing her signing a series of prescriptions.

"Yes, I'm afraid so. Would you mind hopping up on the bed for a quick ultrasound, just to confirm everything’s OK?”

I did as I told, confused as to why this was required, but gathered it was something to do with my fibroids again, as she started to scan my stomach. “Is everything OK?” I asked, feeling panic rising a little.

“Everything looks fine. But you will need to go on iron tablets for the duration, and also I will be giving you a vitamin B complex shot. Don't worry, it won't hurt a bit. And I'm going to advise you to make sure to get a lot of folic acid in your diet - spinach, kale, greens, all of these kinds of things are a good source - for the duration."

"The duration of _what_?" I demanded, feeling all of the blood draining out of my face.

"The pregnancy," said my GP in a matter-of-fact tone of voice, as she moved the ultrasound scan across my stomach. "It is as I thought. You are nearly three months pregnant."

"I can't be pregnant," I stuttered, through clenched teeth. "Doctor, I am forty-six years old. Forty-six. Pregnancy is not... it's just not possible."

"It's rare, but it's not unheard-of," chirped the GP. "I once had a patient discover she was pregnant at the age of 52." But then she stopped, taking note of the panicked expression that must have spread across my face. "That is, of course, if you wish to continue with the pregnancy. If you do not, well, we can advise you on how to make other plans. You will need to consult a second doctor, and there will be a waiting period if you wish to make arrangements through us... or of course, we can refer you to Marie Stopes if you are able to pay for a termination... it is your choice."

"A termination?" I asked, folding my hands across my belly, realising that Ralf had left a tiny piece of himself inside me, in more ways than one. "I don't know. I'm 46 years old, and I'm not getting any younger. I never thought I would have a child... I thought it was too late... I never dreamed... but oh my god. I'd be 60 by the time it was a teenager. I'd be retiring right around the time he or she went to college. I can't look after a child. I'm too old! But... my god, what a gift! A child! Are you quite sure? I'm... pregnant? I'm going to have a little... German... baby?" I stared at her, my eyes wide, trying to imagine what it would be like, and forming a mental picture only of another Katrin, with Ralf’s long rectangular face and my red hair.

"Quite sure," chirped the GP, and I could see from her smile that she was finding the whole thing a little amusing, possibly even slightly miraculous. "Well. I can tell you what sex the baby will be, but I'm afraid we can't tell you what nationality he will be... Oh.” Again, she seemed to note my astonished face and realised she’d made a mistake. “I’m sorry. Did you not want to know the sex?”

“A boy?” I asked, feeling some sense of relief at the thought that it would not be another Katrin.

“You’d need to wait until 16 weeks to know for certain, but I’d say so, yes. Do you want to see?”

I nodded, and she turned the display round to face me. “I can’t see anything. It just looks like a load of static.”

“Here he is, this large blob is his head, this curve is his spine, this is his leg, and oh... yes, look, he just moved. That is definitely a boy.”

I stared, and tried to trace a rather alarmingly long curl of static. “What, that? His father was rather well endowed in the Wurst department, but _that_ seems excessive.”

The doctor laughed. “No, that is the umbilical cord.”

"Can I really _do_ this?" I asked, even as I laughed at the mistake. "At my age, can I do this?"

"Well," she said. "That's up to you. You might want to discuss this with the father. If... well. You said the father was German. Is he... still in the picture?”

I looked at her blankly for a long minute, then took a deep breath. “Well. That’s an awkward question.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of the story's narrative, though I certainly have my ideas about what happens to all of the characters, which I will expand on in the author notes. Author notes will have to be added as the next chapter, as they grew too long to fit in this notes box.


	30. Author Notes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Author notes that got too big to fit in the box. Do you like ambiguous endings? Don't read this. Do you like happy endings? Go ahead and find out what I think happens to all the characters.

I had originally planned to end the story here. But the ending was so ambiguous, and unsettled. And this was not writing for ambiguity and unresolved tension. This was writing as therapy. Writing in order to safely relive some traumatic experiences, and process and de-fuse and discharge emotions I had been carrying for some time. I wanted several things: to explain from the inside how I experienced a series of events very similar to these; to process the unpleasant emotions and learn to handle and deal with trauma; and to rewrite ‘what did happen’ into ‘what I wished could have happened as a resolution.’ It’s not betraying these characters to resolve everything, tie it up with a neat bow and give them a happy ending. That is, in fact, the point. To provide the happy ending that one never achieves in real life.

When I started writing, Katrin T was almost 100% me. By the end of the story, she has had her own experiences and has become very different from me. I read a quote from Andre Gide when I was very young, that left a strong impression – this idea that one could write qualities of oneself into a fictional character, explore those qualities fully, then detach that character from oneself, and walk away without them. It is a very healing thing to do. It is also a very freeing thing. Give a man a mask, and he will tell the truth, as Gide’s pal Wilde once said. I feel as though a weight has been lifted from my shoulders. This story is done. It’s OK to give it a happy ending.

 

So here is what I think happens:

KT keeps the baby. She accepts the Big Commission to ghostwrite the Big Pop Star’s autobiography, and writes through the pregnancy, book and baby gestating at the same time.

While in NYC to do interviews for the Big Commission, she runs into Karl K, who is in town to do some sessions with Nick Cave, whose usual bassist is unavailable due to family issues. It’s not an instant physical attraction, but they experience a very strong intellectual pull towards one another. Karl K, as a character, comes with back story of his own: When he was young, he was bereaved of a close family member – it was initially going to be his father, but then I lighted on the idea that Karl K had an older brother who had been a rising star in the East German Cycling Team during the 80s. However, his brother had a rare genetic condition which caused him to drop dead during training, in front of young Karl. Traumatised, Karl was tested for the condition, and discovered that although he didn’t have it himself, he was a carrier for it – his children would very likely inherit it. Aged 18, he opted for a total vasectomy. As he reached his 30s, and his bandmates all started having children, he regretted this decision bitterly. He found he was good with children, and now, aged 40, found himself desperately wanting to become a father, yet physically unable to. He meets and starts dating KT, pregnant but finally single, and asks to make a family with her. I don’t think that he and KT are in love with each other or anything foolish like that. I think they are two people with a great intellectual affinity, who make a decision and a pact to raise a child together. Over time, they do fall in love, but it’s a deep, companionable love, rather than the kind of ~grand passion~ that both of them have a habit of being swept away by. Karl is a good father, and feels blessed by this chance to have a family of his own. They share their time between London and Germany.

KT deliberately puts off telling the Hütters about the child until she feels it is too late for Ralf to insist on a termination. It’s Karl’s story that finally convinces her to inform the Hütters’ lawyers, mostly because she realises that her son will need to know his father’s medical history. When she finally gets a reply, it is not Ralf that gets in touch, but Jutta.

This was the thing that I simply could not make up my mind about. Jutta is a deliberate absence in this story. It was quite important to me, to never have Jutta appear. KT – and therefore the reader – never experiences Jutta in person, but only through the eyes and the descriptions of other people: Ralf, Müller, Gudrun, Katrin H. Jutta is only ever a reflection in one of the many mirrors in the Hall of Mirrors, and each impression comes with its own warping pre-judgement. I toyed with the idea of having Jutta, herself, finally appear in a series of emails at the end of the story. But I didn’t want to write them. I don’t know that I could.

So it is Jutta who negotiates the relationship that Ralf will have with his son. Part of this is the caretaking role she fulfils for Ralf; part of it is, initially at least, the desire to exercise some control over this mistress. Jutta starts out, understandably, very angry. She accuses KT of wanting money, or of wanting Ralf back, and informs her very snootily that their marriage is stronger than ever. That far from being destroyed by these events, the marriage has pulled closer together, and with KH living away from home, she and Ralf are enjoying a second honeymoon period.

KT writes back saying that she is not the slightest bit interested in money. She makes a sincere apology, then explains that now she is a mother, what she is interested in is the medical history, because she is very aware that her son will likely have Asperger’s, and is at risk for Ralf’s heart condition. And to Jutta’s surprise, KT is actually relieved, and pleased, and happy, that Ralf’s and Jutta’s marriage is doing much better. Jutta is very smart, and quite perceptive about people, and sees that both the relief and the apology are genuine. After sharing some medical information, the two of them agree to fill in each other’s gaps, so that both of them can get closure on the affair. Honesty leads to trust. Trust leads to respect. Respect turns to friendship, as they realise how unalike the two of them are to each other, and yet how alike the other is to the most important people in their lives. Jutta finds KT reminds her of both husband and daughter; KT finds that Jutta reminds her of her own emotionally astute, yet no-nonsense mother. One day, they realise that they are becoming friends, and agree to be allies for the sake of their children.

Karl K takes on the role of father, he is present for the child’s birth, he is KT’s Lamaze partner. But with Jutta’s approval, Ralf slides into a more grandfatherly role. Rallf’s relationship to KT becomes actually, properly paternal, rather than the controlling sexual relationship they had during their affair. The two families merge in this new way, with Ralf and Jutta as grandparents, KT as daughter and Karl K as beloved son in law. The child grows up, eventually being told that Ralf is his biological father, but thinking of Karl K as his actual father, and Ralf as his doting grandfather. It becomes a warm and supportive network of family, rather than this secretive, hidden thing. KT helps Jutta understand the autists in her life better; Jutta helps KT through the more confusing aspects of mid-life motherhood.

As to Katrin Hütter... I don’t know what happens to this character. That seems very much up to her, and whether she chooses to grow up, and learn to be responsible for her own emotions and her own behaviour. The above scenario could very much be either her worst nightmare or her fondest dream. If she continues to act entitled and creepy and manipulative, and continues to be a liar and a fantasist who demands other people’s attention to fill some hole in herself, well... Her parents will not hesitate to exclude her from this new side of the family. The idea of her beloved father, and also her mother, building a new relationship with KT, and with KT’s new partner, the exciting Karl K, and their adorable baby, without her. I could see that very much being a thing that drives KH mad, and KH just becoming more angry and sinking deeper into fantasies of revenge and protestations of “But I did nothing wrong, and now I am being punished, even though it’s everyone’s fault but mine, woe is me, everyone pay attention to me” by acting out more and more and retreating into a fantasy life online or in her own head. That would be very sad for everyone in the story.

Or else KH could actually try to work, through therapy, on learning How To Adult. Getting arrested could serve as a wake-up call, for her. She could see the new branch of her family as a motivation to change. She could do the therapy, let go of her entitlement, learn how to channel her fantasising tendencies into more creative endeavours, rather than trying to convince the internet that her fantasies are true. And most important of all, she could learn what healthy boundaries are (her father is not exactly the best role model here, but with a therapist? She’s young; I believe she could learn) and how to set them for herself, and how to respect and honour them in other people. In a happy ending, Katrin would grow up into a creative young woman with a strong sense of boundaries. I don’t know if KT would ever forget what happened, but she has been taught a humbling lesson in forgiveness, by Jutta and her graciousness.

But forgiveness is predicated first, on an apology and an *acknowledgement* of the wrongdoing. And second, on a genuine attempt to modify behaviour, and not repeat the behaviour again. I think if KH genuinely admitted, “I lied. I made all of this up, because I was jealous. I was obsessed and fixated at the time, so I did not see how damaging and upsetting and frightening my behaviour was to you, but I now recognise that it was terrifying to be the subject of this kind of fixation.” that Jutta would try to broker some peace for the sake of her family. And if KH really did reform, the extended family would become hers, too. She gains a baby brother, for whom she now has an incentive to act as a good role model. She would get KT back, not as a creepy fixation, but as a kind of sister/aunt figure, complete with a very cool brother in law.

But do people like KH ever really change? I don’t know. Some people just don’t want to change; some people are not capable of change. It’s hard to know the difference. KH is, obviously, not a real person. She doesn’t exist. She’s a figment. Like most fanfic, she’s a mixture of imaginatively constructed fiction based around a framework of independently existing inspirations. She has her origins in a conglomeration of a specific traumatising set of events I lived through two and a half years ago, that I turned into a fictional story to try to overcome; combined with two or three different people I have had frightening encounters with over my lifetime. A close family member who simply does not want to acknowledge their own issues. A terrifying ex-boyfriend with a huge sense of entitlement. An estranged former close friend, who would go on to be diagnosed with BPD. An internet acquaintance with a crush that bubbled up into a distorted and disproportionate fantasy of who or what they had decided I should be. (And finally, I must admit, there is a part of KH that is an alternative reality of what I might have turned into, had my own uncomprehending, neurotypical mother not swerved me into mental health treatment, aged about 16.)

But this is fiction. It’s a story, a reworking, a what-might-have-been. I used a mask to tell my truth. But stories become something else in the minds of their readers. I do not have any control over what others project into the narrative or the characters. Fiction is a mirror; people will always use it to see aspects of themselves.

Now, finally, the baby. What is he called? KT named him after her best friend in Germany. Karl K named him to honour his departed brother. Ralf named him after his former closest friend and partner for 40 years. (In real life, I only named the bicycle Florian.)


End file.
